The Lord and the Lady
by Stargazer Nataku
Summary: Series that chronicles the life of Denethor and Finduilas. Now COMPLETE!
1. Summer by the Sea

            Denethor, son of Ecthelion, waited outside of his father's study as the Steward finished some business with his councilors.  Usually, as the Steward's heir, he was himself present at these meetings, but this morning he had had other pressing duties, and had excused himself.  At forty-six, Denethor was no longer a young man; his dark hair had streaks of grey, and he had a stern air about him of one who has seen much and remembered all.  His face was hard and features lordly; he was a kingly man, one born to rule.

            The door opened then, and several men came out, and they bowed as they passed the Steward's heir, and the last told him softly that the Steward wished to see him.  He nodded and entered the room, shutting the door behind him.

            Ecthelion II was standing beside the window, looking out over the city to the Pelennor and beyond.  When he heard the door shut, he turned to look at his son.  He himself was a stern man, though there were lines on his face that spoke of kindly smiles.  His hair was snow white where it fell around his shoulders, and his face was wrinkled and lined, the color of his grey eyes dimmed with age.  "Ah, Denethor," he said, returning to sit at his desk, "Good.  I wished to inform you that I have need of you to travel south, to Dol Amroth."

            "Dol Amroth?" Denethor asked, somewhat surprised. 

            "Indeed," Ecthelion answered.  "It has been many years since one of our family has traveled there, and it is high time.  Since I cannot go, I must send you."

            "Very well, my lord," Denethor answered, even though he had no desire at all to leave his city, for he felt his place was there, by his father's side, instead of a week's journey to the south, bearing messages that any messenger could bring himself.

            "I admit, my son," Ecthelion said after a moment, almost as if he could tell what his son was thinking, "There is another reason I wish you to go."  The Steward paused and rose from his seat to walk back towards the window.  "I am no longer young," he began, not meeting Denethor's eyes, "And you grow no younger, my son.  You should have been married long ago, but you have turned down all women in Gondor and Rohan that befit your station."  At this he turned to face Denethor.  "I would see you married, and with an heir, before it is my time to leave this world.  I would die happy knowing that our line shall continue.  What will come of Gondor if the line of Stewards were also to die?"  He turned back to the window.  "You must wed, son, and should not delay longer than you have.  Adrahil has a daughter, the Lady Finduilas, as I am sure you know.  Keep what I have said in mind when looking upon her.  From what I have heard of the young lady, she would make a good wife, and it would be a good way to cement our alliance with her father, and later her brother."  

            "Yes, my lord," Denethor answered. 

            "Good.  Now, you must prepare for your journey.  The ship departs two days hence and you have much to attend to, ere that day."

            "Indeed.  My lord," Denethor bowed to his father before turning to leave, as a slight frown came upon his face.  What would this Lady have that all the others had not?  Yet it was his father's will, and Denethor would not fail him.  He would look at the Lady, and if nothing, then he would not have failed to do as his father bid.

            Denethor watched as the city of Dol Amroth grew closer.  The sight of the swan banners of her princes flying high on the towers of the city by the sea, while not as tall or as beautiful as the White Tower, filled him with relief.  He disliked voyages by water, and it was a long journey down the Anduin and along the coast to Dol Amroth.

            When the ship docked at one of the quays and the gangplank was let down Denethor descended to the pier where a nervous young man stood and bowed before him.  "My Lord, I am sent by my Lord, Prince Amrahil, to welcome you to our fair city.  If I may be permitted to escort you…"

            "I thank you for your welcome," Denethor said formally, "And I shall be glad to follow."  Leaving his servants to take care all he had brought, he followed the young man to the palace of the Princes of Dol Amroth.  

            It had been many years since Denethor had been in the city.  He had been a young man then, only nineteen, and there for the coronation of the new prince, a man nearly fifteen years his senior.  He remembered disliking the trip by boat then as well, but remembered the city almost fondly, though he was a stern man and not given to such thoughts.  

            The city had not changed much, though years had passed since Denethor had walked the streets of Dol Amroth.  All the buildings were made of light grey stone, and with the sun shining on them and the smell of the salt air of the sea, it made for an entirely different atmosphere than he could find in Minas Tirith, which was aptly named.  Here, there was an atmosphere of calm peace, and one almost of longing, as the whisper of the sea could be heard from any point in the city, near or far from the beaches and wharfs though it was.  Minas Tirith had a feel of strength, of watchful waiting and a constant threat of war coupled with a timelessness that came from constantly standing on the edge of a threat, as a man would watch a viper waiting to strike.  Yet it was his city, and Denethor desired nothing more than to return.  The peace of Dol Amroth was disquieting; it made him nervous, as if he had grown so used to being threatened by the shadowy lands to the east that being without the threat was distressing.

            He shook his thoughts away from Minas Tirith as they entered the Great Hall of the palace where he knew Prince Adrahil would be waiting.  The room was large, made of white stone, with windows running the length that let the sunshine stream through on the fine woodworking within.  But he did not look to either side, beautiful though the room was, for Adrahil had risen and was smiling.  "Greetings, my Lord!  We are much honored that you have come to us.  It has been many years."

            "My father is glad to spare me, my Lord," Denethor answered, "I bring you his greetings and continued friendship."

            "I thank you," Adrahil said, "and I hope you will excuse my lack of hospitality, for my family is not here to greet you on your coming.  My wife took my daughter and son to her own family for the Midsummer celebrations this year, but they shall return very soon.  I expect them today or tomorrow, at latest."

            "Do not be concerned of it, Lord," Denethor answered; he was weary from the long voyage and glad he would have time to rest before he would need to meet the Prince's wife and children.  The Prince smiled and then nodded in understanding.  

            "Undoubtedly you are weary," he continued, "The journey here from Minas Tirith is long."

            "It is indeed," Denethor answered as his sharp gaze caught Adrahil look past him to the room beyond.  Denethor did not turn but watched Adrahil's face.  The man nodded then turned back to the Steward's son.

            "Your rooms are prepared, Lord Denethor," the Prince told him, "Perhaps you would like to rest tonight, and tomorrow eve we shall have the official feast of welcoming, if that suits you."

            "Indeed it does, my Lord.  I am grateful for your hospitality."

            "It is my joy to give it," the prince replied, and both men bowed formally before Denethor was lead from the room by a page.

            The next day passed quickly, for there was much to do.  By late afternoon, Denethor had dressed himself in his finest garments and was waiting patiently, sipping a glass of wine, in his chambers, waiting to be summoned to the feast.  He stood by the window, looking out across the city to where the sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting sparkles of light across the endless ocean.  Even he had to admit that the view was beautiful, the sound of the waves calming, though he still felt uneasy.  But the son of Ecthelion was a man, having already seen forty-six winters, and he quashed the uneasiness and decided it undoubtedly had to do with leaving his own city and people behind.

            A knock came on the door just then, and Denethor turned away from the window immediately, setting down the wine glass on a table.  He smoothed his tunic and straightened himself, pushing several strands of his shoulder-length black hair behind his ears as he walked to the door and opened it himself, having dismissed the page who had traveled with him from Minas Tirith.

            Another page was waiting on the other side, dressed formally as well, and he bowed.  "My lord," he said, "Your presence is requested."  Denethor nodded, and kept his stern, lordly features clear of emotion, remaining silent.  He followed the boy through the palace and down to the Throne Room, where there was already much noise within.  The page stepped in before him, and he was announced a moment later, and entered the room.  Everyone in the room, including the royal family, stood and all except for the Prince bowed before him.  Denethor himself walked until he was just before the throne at the front of the hall, and bowed before the Prince himself.              Adrahil smiled, and he spoke in a firm, clear voice.  "Lord Denethor, I welcome you to Dol Amroth on behalf of my family and my people," he began, "Many years has it been since one of your family has come among us, and we welcome you in joy and friendship."

            "I thank you for your generous hospitality and gracious welcome, my Lord," Denethor responded, "Glad indeed am I to be among you.  My father and all the people of Gondor send their friendship and bid me offer it to you, so that the amity will never die between our peoples."  He answered with a slight bow.  Adrahil was also smiling, and he motioned at the woman who stood beside him.

            "May I present my wife Eärwen," he said, and the woman bowed and spoke in a gentle, musical voice.

            "Lord Denethor," she said gently.

            "Lady Eärwen," he replied, with a bow of his own.

            "My son and heir, Imrahil," he said with a nod to the youth that stood beside his mother, who looked a great deal like his mother, with the same golden hair and blue eyes.

            "Lord Denethor," the young man, who could be no more than twenty, answered.

            "Lord Imrahil," he answered.

            "And my daughter," the prince said with pride, "may I present Finduilas."  Denethor turned his face to the woman who was standing by her father's side. He had not looked on her before, so set was he on her father, but he felt himself pause as his gaze fell upon her.  She seemed to be at least ten years older than her brother, but she was beautiful.  Her hair was as black as Denethor's own, swept away from her face, which had carefully defined, delicate features and deep set green eyes that took him in with a slight hint of shyness in her face.  She was tall, though still shorter than he, and rather thin, her skin clear and unblemished.

            "Lord Denethor," she said, and her voice was soft and gentle as she bowed.

            "My lady," he said, and returned the bow.  When he straightened again, it was an effort to not turn his face towards her again, but rather to her father, and the courtesies that must be observed.  Amrahil was beaming a genuine smile as he stepped down the two stairs to grasp Denethor's hand in friendship.  Denethor smiled back, and gave a small bow.  

            "Come," Adrahil said, and motioned a door at the side of the hall, "To the feast!"  There was an outpouring of speech then from the people in the hall, and Denethor, as custom dictated, offered his arm to Finduilas as Adrahil took up Eärwen's.  Adrahil's daughter gave it to him with a smile that lit up her face, and Denethor found himself smiling back with an earnestness that was not faked.

            "How was your journey, my lord?" she asked him in her soft voice as they walked, breaking the silence.

            "Long, m'lady," he answered, "I must admit, I do not enjoy travel by water."  Her smile widened.

            "I love the water," she said, "But I often go sailing, and have all my life.  Some of my earliest memories are of the ocean, when I was but a little girl."  Denethor smiled.  They had reached the high table in the Great Hall.

            "That could not have been very long ago, m'lady," Denethor said, although she had to be at least twenty-five.  She turned her smiling face to him as she sank into her seat and he into his. 

            "Longer than you may think, Lord Denethor," she said with merriment twinkling in her eyes.  Then the first course was served and Denethor was forced to turn his attention to Amrahil on his opposite side for some time.  Even so, he sensed her beside him, heard her laughing and her gentle voice speaking with those around her.

            But he did not have a chance to speak to her again before dinner ended, and the dancing began.  Her brother instantly whisked her away from him, as he was rising to his feet, and for several long moments, he simply watched her.  She was a beautiful dancer, graceful, and she smiled ever wider with each step and turn, laughing as her brother spoke softly to her.  Denethor found a slight smile unwittingly moving the corners of his mouth.  

            The first dance ended, and Finduilas and Imrahil broke apart, brother and sister laughing breathlessly, bowing to each other as they were swept up by another partner.  Adrahil, smiling, laid a hand gently on Eärwen's arm and the woman turned to meet his eyes and smiled back as they watched their son and daughter as they danced.

            Several dances later, Finduilas returned to her seat, her breath quickened, her face flushed, and her eyes shining.  Denethor turned to her and spoke.

            "You are a talented dancer, m'lady," he said.

            "Thank you, m'lord," she replied, and the redness in her cheeks deepened at his compliment, "I love it so."

            "That is obvious," he answered, and smiled at her.  "Perhaps you would allow me to have the next dance?" he asked, even as he cursed himself for asking.  He did not especially care for dancing, and he was not very skilled at it.  Yet he asked, and somewhere within him he hoped beyond hope that she would say yes.

            "It would be an honor, m'lord."  She blushed again and did not meet his eyes.  Then the music ended and he rose to his feet, offering her his hand.  She took it and gracefully rose and allowed him to lead her towards the floor.

            It was a swift dance, one that Denethor had mastered, although not particularly well.  Yet it did not matter, for in his arms Finduilas adjusted for each occasional misstep and smiled the entire time.  He did not speak to her, for he needed to concentrate on the movements, and she did not speak either; instead she watched him with a shy smile playing about her mouth, with a gentle look in her eyes that not many gifted upon the Steward's son.  

            Then the dance ended, and he smiled at her, his stern, lordly features softening as he bowed and spoke.  "Thank you, m'lady," he said in a voice softer than his usual.

            She returned his bow, but did not speak, merely smiled and took his arm as they walked back to their seats and sat.

            Afterwards, the evening passed by quickly.  Denethor danced but a little, just enough to be polite, but mostly sat to watch and speak quietly to Adrahil and Finduilas when she was seated.  But mostly she danced, for she was good at it, and enjoyment shone on her face.  And Denethor sat and watched her, his eyes following as she whirled happily around the room.  For once, the usually perceptive man did not notice the looks that Adrahil and Eärwen were giving each other discreetly.

            Later that night, Denethor lay in his bed, the soft summer breeze moving the white curtains back and forth in the moonlight as the sound of the sea and the smell of salt reached him as he waited for sleep to come.  It did not.  After much trying, he rose up out of bed, and walked to the window, picking up a robe from the back of a chair and drawing it about himself as he went.  The night air was cool, though not as cool as if he was back in the White City, and the moon shone brightly on the city and the sea.  The gardens beneath his window were lit as if it was daytime, and the stars shone far above brilliantly.  He took a deep breath in and out, and his thoughts turned to her, for indeed he was sure that was why he could not sleep.

            Finduilas, daughter of Adrahil, with her black hair and piercing yet shy emerald eyes, the grace with which she danced, her gentle voice, her eyes shining with joy…Without consciously realizing it, his face softened, the stern lines of his features nearly disappearing into a small half smile.

            One morning, several weeks into his stay, he was in his chambers when he heard a gentle knock on the door.  His page answered it and after a moment, the young man appeared and with a bow announced that Lord Imrahil would like to see him.  Denethor gathered the papers he was working on into a neat stack, the rose as the young man entered.  "Lord Denethor," he said and both men bowed simultaneously, before straightening.  Imrahil met Denethor's eyes and smiled.  "My sister and I are going sailing.  If you wish to accompany us, you are more than welcome."

            Denethor pondered for a moment, and then, though he was not sure why, nodded.  "I would be pleased to accompany you," he answered.  "A moment please."  Imrahil nodded and left the room, and Denethor quickly changed into a different, more worn, set of clothes.  When he exited his room, Imrahil was there waiting.

            "Finduilas is already down at the wharf," the younger man explained.

            "I see," Denethor answered.

            "She's a beautiful woman, is she not?" 

            "Yes, she is," Denethor answered truthfully, casting a glance at the other man, wondering why Imrahil would say anything like that at all.  But Imrahil was not looking at him; he looked resolutely forward, down towards the ocean, silent.  Denethor brushed away the question, and neither man spoke again until they had reached the dock and saw Finduilas standing at the end, wearing a deep blue dress with silver embroidery, staring to the south across the water.  He saw her in profile: her pale skin, unblemished by the wind and the sun, green eyes reflecting the light sparkling in the water.  Her hair was braided but strands of it had come loose and were blowing about in the brisk wind; her skirts blew about her like a blue and silver cloud, and when she turned to face them her face lit up in a smile that she graced not only upon her brother, but also upon Denethor.

            "My lord," she said, with a slight curtsey, and he gave a slight bow.  "Are you prepared?" 

            "Indeed," Denethor answered, and watched as Imrahil sprang into the small boat.  

            "I had Isëlmra pack us a lunch," Finduilas addressed both men as she took Imrahil's hand and stepped into the boat.  "And asked her to tell Mother we would not return until the afternoon."  

            "Good!" Imrahil answered with a grin, as Denethor stepped into the boat, and for a moment felt a flash of nervousness.  He had never been in such a small boat, and even in the harbor the waves rocked it furiously.  "Can you untie the rope, Lord Denethor?" Imrahil then asked, and Denethor felt Finduilas' eyes upon him as he turned to undo the tie that held them to the pier.  He felt ridiculous, for he was a grown man, to be so uneasy, and with a resolute glare he leaned out and reached for the rope.

            At the precise moment he reached out, a rather large wave stuck the boat just hard enough for Denethor to be knocked off balance.  As he had been leaning forward, momentum carried him in that direction and he was thrown into the sea.  Thankful the water was only as deep as his waist, he pushed himself to his feet, sputtering, his dark hair hanging limply around his shoulders, completely drenched.  Salt water stung his eyes as he reached blindly out to find the edge of the boat.  It was then he heard laughter, and the Steward's heir was completely and utterly embarrassed.  Then there was another voice, a sharper one.  "Stop, Imrahil," he heard Finduilas say, "It is hardly funny."  Denethor looked up at her as she bent over and reached out her hand to him.  "Are you hurt?" she asked, and there was genuine concern in her eyes.

            "Nay, m'lady," he answered, and accepted her hand and Imrahil's, who had stopped laughing, though there was merriment mingling with concern in his eyes.  Together, they pulled him, dripping, back into the boat.  Finduilas' eyes skimmed him over, and then she frowned.

            "You're bleeding," she stated, and reached out and boldly touched his arm.  Sure enough, there was a gash there, long but not deep, though how he had sustained it Denethor could not remember.  He was surprised he had not noticed it, for it stung due to the salt water in the wound.

            "T'is nothing," he answered, trying to pull away, but she refused to release her light yet firm hold on his arm.  

            "Imrahil, hand me the canteen," she ordered her brother, which the young man did without a question.  She removed the stopper and then poured the cool, fresh water over the cut, washing it carefully.  The sting began to subside as the salt from the water was washed from the wound, and it felt much better.  After a moment, she corked the bottle and then reached out her hand, into which Imrahil placed a white cloth.  She wrapped it around Denethor's arm, covering the gash, and tied it tightly.  "There," she said after a moment, and when she caught him watching her she blushed.

            "Thank you, my lady," Denethor said, "I am grateful."

            "T'was nothing, my lord," she answered, and there was a pause.  "If you would like to return to the palace, we will not be offended."

            "Nay," Denethor answered, "I would like to continue."

            "All right," she answered, turning to her brother.  "Imrahil, _you_ get the rope," she ordered, in a voice that left no room for her younger brother to argue, "And I hope you fall in so Lord Denethor can have his own turn to laugh."  Imrahil cleared his throat.

            "I apologize," he said to Denethor, and he looked ashamed.  Denethor nodded in response.

            "There is no harm done," the Gondorian answered, though he still keenly felt the embarrassment, and watched the young man untie the rope without incident.  He himself turned to find Finduilas had seated herself at the prow of the boat, and she smiled, and motioned for him to sit beside her.  "You had best sit," she said, "The waves are high today, and it will not be wise to stand."  She did not add 'so you do not fall over the side again,' though he could tell that was why she wished him to sit, and he felt grateful, and as he sat on the other side of the small seat there, he cast a glance over at her.

            When the boat reached open water, she had shut her eyes, and a wide smile had come across her face, for she was concentrating on the feel of the wind and the smell of the sea, and the rising and falling of the boat on the waves.  The cry of the gulls was loud in his ears as they wheeled overhead, and for a moment he forgot his own nervousness as he casually watched her, wrapped up in her love of the wind and sea, and for the first time he saw her unguarded by the rigidities of her station and saw through to the cheerful, joyous soul within.  

            "Do you want to go to our beach?" Imrahil called up from the back of the boat, and Finduilas opened her eyes and turned.

            "Yes!" she answered, and then turned to meet Denethor's gaze.  "It is not far," she said, "Imrahil and I go there often.  It is why we call it 'our' beach.  It is a beautiful place."  He nodded in answer.

            The beach was beautiful, as Finduilas had said, and isolated.  The only way onto the beach was from the water itself, for it was a flat place surrounded by steeply sloping cliffs on the three landward sides that were covered with trees and small shrubs.  The rocks ran out into the water, smooth from where years of waves had washed over them.  All around the smell of flowers came from where they grew on and among the trees.  The beach itself was white sand that was soft under his feet. 

            Finduilas disembarked lightly from the boat onto the shore, and Denethor followed.  She had removed her shoes and walked barefoot onto the beach, carrying the basket that he assumed contained their lunch.  High above them gulls called as they rode the currents of air, and swept grey and large against the brilliantly blue sky.

            And so they sat, and Finduilas spread out their lunch, and for a while they ate in silence.  Then Imrahil spoke.  "I'm going to swim, I think," he said.

            "I would like to walk a little," Finduilas added, "Please join me, my lord?"  She turned questioning green eyes to Denethor, and he nodded.

            "Of course," he answered, glad that he would not be called upon to swim.  Imrahil packed up the remains of their lunch with his sister's help, and then took it to the boat as Finduilas rose and began to walk down towards the other end of the beach, about a quarter of a mile distant.  Denethor walked by her side, and he cast an occasional glance at her, keenly aware that she was doing the same, discreetly.  

            "What is Minas Tirith like?" she asked suddenly, to break the silence between them.

            "Well," Denethor began, "It is a beautiful city."  And he began to speak of his home, his people, and his duties, and Finduilas walked by his side silently, listening to all he said without saying a word herself.

            By the time they had reached the end of the beach, he spoke softly, "I am sorry, I am sure you grow weary of listening to me."

            "Of course not," Finduilas answered, and her voice was earnest.  Denethor smothered a smile as he stepped over a fallen log in their path.  He reached back over to give Finduilas his hand to help her over it.  She took it with a shy smile, and a trust filled glance, and then stepped onto the log so she could step over it more easily.  Yet the log was rotten through, and when she put her weight onto it, it crumbled beneath her feet and she fell. 

            He had barely managed to catch her so she did not hit the ground, and carefully lifted her away from the log, and searched her face intently.  "Are you all right, my lady?" he asked, noticing she had suddenly gone pale; there was no color left in her cheeks.

            "I've turned my ankle," she said, and there was a breath of pain in her voice, and he looked down and noticed that she was not, in fact, putting any weight upon her left foot.

            "Can you put weight on it?"  Still clinging to his arms for support, she tried to put gentle pressure upon her injured ankle but winced in pain.

            "I'm afraid not," she answered, "Oh I am sorry!"

            "Do not be sorry for something that is not your fault, my lady."  He paused.  "Would you permit me to carry you?"  

            At his question, Finduilas blushed but nodded.

            "I fear you will have to," she conceded with a slight sigh.  "I cannot walk."  He nodded, and lifted her, cradling her in his arms. 

            "Put your arm around the back of my neck," he instructed, and she did so as he stepped over the now broken log and began to walk back the way they had come.  This time neither spoke and Finduilas kept her gaze down, though Denethor continued to watch her discreetly.  He was proud, now, of his strength for she did not seem like a heavy burden at all, and he made it easily back across the beach.

            Imrahil was just getting out of the water when Denethor came into sight, and he came running over as Denethor put Finduilas down gently, still supporting her.  "Are you all right?" her brother demanded, taking her free arm and searching her face with alarm.

            "I shall be," Finduilas answered, "But I've twisted my ankle."  Her brother knelt in front of her and she held out her small foot.  He pushed her dress aside and gave a low whistle.  The ankle was already splotched with purple and swollen to twice its normal size.

            "We need to get you home," Imrahil concluded, "Right away."  She nodded and her brother nodded his thanks to Denethor, and spoke to Finduilas again.  "Let me help you," he offered and slipped under her arm, supporting her as she moved slowly back to the boat.  "My Lord," he said, turning to Denethor, "Would you please get in and help her once I lift her over the side?"  Denethor nodded and did as requested, steadying the young woman and helping her to her seat.

            Imrahil pushed the boat off into the shallow waters before jumping in and handing Finduilas a piece of cloth that was soaked in the cool seawater.  "Wrap it with that," he ordered his sister, and she did so, placing her foot up on their lunch basket that had been placed in front of her.  So far she had said nothing to Denethor, and kept her gaze downward.

            "Does your ankle pain you greatly, my lady?" Denethor asked to break the silence.  She did not answer his question.  "My lady?" She turned to look at him and he saw tears glimmering in her eyes.

            "Are you all right?" he asked, more concerned upon seeing her tears.  He noticed she was trembling slightly, and her usually pale skin was flushed red.

            "I am all right," she said after a moment, so softly he was not sure he had heard her, "It does pain me, but it is lessening."

            "Can I do anything to make you more comfortable?"

            "I thank you, but no," Finduilas answered, "I will be fine."  There was a slight bump of the boat, and Imrahil's voice.

            "Let me tie the boat, then we will help you home."  Imrahil jumped onto the dock and tied it securely as Denethor helped Finduilas to her feet.  Leaning heavily on him, she managed to get to the side of the boat, and Imrahil reached down and lifted her onto the pier, carefully so as not to jar her injured ankle.  "It will go faster if I carry you," Imrahil told her as he picked her up, and Finduilas did not protest.  Denethor followed a pace behind, eyes never leaving the pair ahead of him.

            Later that evening, Denethor made his way towards the wing that held the royal family's chambers, silent and lost in thought.  He expected, and hoped, to find Finduilas in her sitting room, where it would be proper for her to receive him; the guards told him that yes, she was within and allowed him to pass into the empty corridor.

            He walked quietly and quickly down the hall until he was outside the door he knew to be hers, and had raised his hand to knock when he heard Lady Eärwen's voice within, speaking softly to her daughter.  He knew he should turn away, and come again, but her words seemed to make him freeze in place.  "So he did nothing unseemly, then?"  

            "Nay, of course not," Finduilas' answering voice came, "He carried me back to Imrahil, and that was all.  I could not walk myself, and I needed the help."

            There was a short silence.  "You seem distraught, daughter."

            "I…" a pause, "I did find it a bit distressing," Finduilas admitted, "I find that…well I was so embarrassed, Mother!  But at the same time…it seemed so comfortable, like I could…I can't even explain the feeling.  Just that I felt so glad I was able to depend on him."  He could hear a slight shyness creeping into her voice.

            "Lord Denethor is a good man," Eärwen's voice came, "And I daresay a dependable one."  There was a pause, and Denethor heard a sigh from within, "I will only say this, Finduilas, and that you must follow your own heart.  Think not of what your father or I will, but do what you would.  I trust you, dearest daughter, and think only of your happiness."

            "I know," he heard Finduilas answer. "Thank you."  There was a pause, and then Eärwen spoke again.

            "Let me see your embroidery."  A pause.  "It is beautiful work, Finduilas.  So beautiful it seems impossible that you had only me for a teacher."  Finduilas laughed and with her laugh Denethor was jolted from his stupor and reached out to knock on the door.

            A moment later, the door swung open to reveal Eärwen on the other side.  "Lord Denethor," she said, and both bowed slightly, "Good evening."

            "Good evening, my lady," he replied, "I came to inquire about the Lady Finduilas."

            "Come in please," Eärwen said, and stepped aside, so his eyes fell on Finduilas.  She was seated in a large chair, her bandaged foot upon an ottoman in front of her, and she was smiling.

            "You'll have to excuse me," she said as he entered, "As I cannot rise to greet you."

            "Do not trouble on my account," Denethor answered, as he met her eyes.  "I merely wished to know how you are faring."

            "They told me it is not broken, thank Eru.  I shall be dancing again in a little more than a week."

            "I am glad to hear it, my lady," he answered sincerely.

            "Will you sit?" she asked.

            "I do not wish to trouble you," Denethor said, "For it is late.  But if you would wish it, I shall come tomorrow morning."  He watched Finduilas cast a quick glance at her mother from the corner of her eye and saw the almost imperceptible nod Eärwen gave to her daughter.  Finduilas' smile grew, and she nodded to Denethor.

            "I should very much like that, my lord."

            "I shall come," Denethor promised, "Good evening, my ladies."  Eärwen rose and walked him to the door, and he bowed as he left, casting a glance toward Finduilas, who was also smiling back at him, and her eyes were shining.

            Denethor did go the next morning, and each day after until she could walk for short distances.  Then they spent their mornings in the garden, walking slowly up and down among the rose bushes that were a favorite of Eärwen.  When her ankle began to ache, they would sit in the warm summer sunshine on one of the stone benches and talk as the sea air brushed over them and the cry of the gulls accompanied their soft voices.

            Even after her ankle was completely well, they met every morning in the garden after breakfast, until one morning a month later she did not appear at the customary time.  Concerned, he waited nearly an hour, until one of her ladies of waiting appeared, breathless.  She bowed hastily, looking nervous, and spoke.  "My Lord," she said, "The lady sends her apologies.  Her brother was injured this morning, and she cannot leave his side."

            "Injured?" Denethor demanded sharply.

            "Yes," the girl answered, "I know not how, but he fell from a boat and nearly drowned.  I know nothing more than that."

            "Thank you," Denethor said, and did not notice as the girl scurried thankfully away, concern on his lordly features.  He tried to decide what was best to do, and came only on the conclusion that he could do nothing.  Silently he abandoned the summer sunshine in the garden and returned to his quarters to wait.

            Night fell and Denethor, having seen nothing of his hosts, ate dinner quietly in his own chambers and then went to bed.  Yet sleep was elusive, as his thoughts strayed to young Imrahil.  Denethor liked the good-natured young man, and concern kept him awake.  He was lying there, thinking, when he heard a soft noise underneath his window, and he slipped from bed and over to the balcony.  He saw a figure dimly outlined in the starlight and the soft light from the crescent moon.  It was a woman, and she was bent over as if in grief, her hands were pressed to her face.  The sounds of weeping came to him.  He could not recognize her, not in the dim light, but he turned quickly and, not entirely knowing why, dressed quickly and left his quarters.

            When he entered the garden, the woman was still there, seated with her back towards him.  He approached slowly, trying to make his footsteps sound on the stone path between the bountiful rosebushes, and when she did not hear him over her weeping he spoke softly.  "Excuse me," he said and the woman leapt to her feet in surprise and whirled to face him, the dim moonlight casting itself over her tear streaked face.  "Finduilas?" he asked in surprise.  She did not speak, merely stood and looked at him, frozen and trembling in her grief.  Then suddenly, she was moving, and she threw herself into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder.  In an almost reflexive movement, Denethor wrapped his arms around her, and gently stroked her thick dark hair, silent as she wept.

            After a time that seemed an eternity, he felt her trembling begin to still, and she carefully pulled away from his arms.  "I…am sorry," she finally stammered, as she wiped the final tears from her eyes.

            "Nay, my lady, do not apologize," Denethor said, "Come," he took her hand, and led her over to the bench where she had been sitting when he had arrived, drawing her down so she was seated beside him.  He did not release her hand.  "Tell me what grieves you.  Is it your brother?"

            "Aye," she answered, and her face fell.  "You heard what happened?"

            "Aye."

            "I fear for him," she told Denethor, "I would do something to aid him, but there is nothing I can do except wait and hope.  But hope seems so far away…when they brought him home he was unconscious, and he has not awoken.  I can do nothing, and I am so afraid!  And then…" Tears began to run down her face again, and she pressed her free hand over her eyes.  Denethor shifted his position a little and pulled her to him, and she laid her head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her.

            "And then what?" Denethor prompted softly.

            "I can't help but think…I said…"

            "What?"

            "That I hoped he would fall in…"  Denethor thought back to the day they had gone sailing, and remembered her sharp words to her brother.

            "My lady," he said gently but firmly, "This is not your fault, and I'm sure your brother would not blame you.  He knows you did not truly wish such a thing to happen.  It will be all right," the Steward's son whispered, "Do not fear."  She pressed more tightly against him, and he felt a rush of pride and strength come over him, and he tightened his hold on the woman in his arms. As he held her, her tears began to slow, and her breathing evened.  Yet even then, she did not pull away, but seemed content to remain as she was, though she did not speak.  It calmed him, somehow, to have her in his arms, and he made no move to release her.  He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly there was a sound at the other end of the garden, and a soft voice calling, "Lady Finduilas?"  

            Finduilas quickly pulled away from the shelter of Denethor's arms, and jumped to her feet.  She met his eyes, and in a moment an expressive gaze that spoke more than the words they had said passed between them.  "Thank you," she whispered, taking his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze before she fled down the path to whoever had been calling her.

            Denethor did not sleep that night, and spent the next day in his chambers, for the image of her eyes at the moment she had pulled away would not leave him.  In that moment he had seen clearly something that he was surprised to see, and the image of it replayed again and again in his mind's eye.  He remembered what she had said to her mother, in the conversation he had overheard, that she was glad she could depend on him. In the solitude of his room, with the sound of the waves and the gulls in his ears, he realized he wanted to be depended on.  He wanted to give her the strength he had and take from her that which he found comforting.  He knew that there was something about her gentle manner and companionship that touched him in a way he had never before been touched.  It was welcoming, like the warmth of a spring breeze after the winter's chill.

            Denethor rose to his feet and walked to his window.  It was sunset, and the world was bathed in soft, reddish light as the sun touched the waves of the ocean in the west.  The sounds of homecomings drifted up to him from the wharfs and the houses of the city, mingling with the unceasing sound of the waves crashing on the shore.  The sun set earlier these days, a sign of the coming fall, and Denethor was displeased at the thought, for it meant that soon he would be looked for in Minas Tirith.  And while he missed his own home and city, the thought of leaving Finduilas was bitter.  He sighed as he watched the waves crashing against the shore and the gulls soaring high in the softening light. 

Denethor did not know how long he stood there, watching the sun set slowly, thinking of Finduilas and concerned for young Imrahil, before there was a soft knock on the door.  "Enter," he called.  One of Adrahil's servants appeared, and he bowed low.

            "I bring a message from Lady Eärwen," he said, "The Lady Finduilas told her of your concern for Lord Imrahil, and she wishes me to tell you that he awoke an hour ago.  He is still in pain, but out of danger, thank the Valar."  Denethor smiled, pleased, thinking how happy Finduilas would be, and nodded to the young man.

            "Tell her I am thankful for the news, and that if there is anything that I can do, I am at her service."

            "I will my lord," the young man answered, and disappeared from his chambers.  Denethor paused a moment, feeling the smile still present on his face, and dressed himself and went out into the garden.

            He was not in the garden long before she appeared, exhaustion on her face but joy in her eyes. She came over to him quickly, eyes shining in the fading daylight, and a bright smile on her face.  "Did you hear?" she asked, her voice merry, as she paused several steps from him.

            "I did, my lady," Denethor said, "It was good news indeed."

            "Indeed," she said, and her smile did not fade although the color in her face grew deeper as she blushed, suddenly shy, perhaps remembering her boldness of the night before, and turned away from him, bending over to caress and smell one of the roses blooming on the bush beside her.  The breeze brushing over them was cool, and neither spoke for a moment, before Denethor spoke slowly.  

            "The sun sets earlier these days," he began.

            "It does," Finduilas answered, a note of sorrow in her voice as she looked out over the ocean towards the sinking sun.

            "In Minas Tirith," he continued, "The farmers will be harvesting their crops on the Pelannor in preparation for the winter to come."

            "You must miss it," she said softly.  "You will depart soon, will you not?"

            "Yes," he answered, "My father will be looking for my coming.  I shall most likely depart before another week has passed."

            "So soon?" she asked, and she turned to him, her usually smiling face serious.  In her eyes, he detected sadness.

            "I must, my lady.  I have enjoyed every moment I have spent here, but by necessity it will end.  I have a duty to my Steward and my people."

            "I understand," she answered, and in her eyes, mingled with the sorrow he saw there, was understanding.  He glanced away from her, to where the stars were beginning to appear in the ever-darkening sky.  

            "I shall miss you, my lady, when I have gone away."  He heard her shift, and felt her eyes upon him again, but he did not look to her. "I have enjoyed my time here."

"As have I," she answered, and her voice was almost a whisper.  "I shall miss you as well." Her eyes looked down towards the roses, and the sadness within intensified as she turned to her thoughts.  Denethor had the sudden urge to pull her close, to banish the sadness from her eyes by whispering to her that he would not go, that he would never leave her.  But that was impossible.  As much as he had found happiness in the city by the sea, he had tarried long, and now duty called from his own home to the north, duty that could not be denied or ignored.

He could not stay, but perhaps…for a moment his heart stood still, and then he turned to her and spoke.  "I…have grown fond of you, my lady."  He took a step forward and reached out to take her hand in his own.  She grasped it gladly.

"And I of you," she answered, meeting his intense gaze.  Once again, he could read all in her eyes, the sadness she had at the thought of his departure, the love that she bore him.  He met her eyes seriously, and spoke quietly.

"I am no longer young, my lady," he said.

"Yet you are not old," Finduilas she said, and reached boldly up to touch his hair.  It was a ghost of a touch; he could barely feel it as she shyly stroked the dark hair that was already streaked with strands of gray.

"I am nearly forty-seven," he answered, "That is no longer young, in the count of men in this age of the world."

"And I am nearly twenty-seven," she replied, "That is no longer young, for a woman to be unmarried in this age of the world."  Denethor found himself laughing, and in an amused manner, belying the seriousness of the question, asked:

"Perhaps there is something to be done?"  She paused in her own laughter, and was suddenly serious, looking up to him with a mixture of surprise and happiness in her eyes as he spoke again.  "When I say I am fond of you, my lady, I do not jest," Denethor continued, suddenly desiring to admit all to her, the same way her eyes told all to him.  "You have touched me in a way that no other ever has, and I wish...I would wed you, my lady, if you desire it."  When she did not speak he continued, "Of course, if you are willing I must gain your father's permission, and that of my own…"

"I am willing," she interrupted.  He stopped speaking, and she smiled, shyly again.

"You are?"

"Indeed," she answered.  Denethor did not know what to say, and stood there for a moment, smiling in joy, before with a sudden thought his face darkened.

"It means you shall have to leave Dol Amroth behind, my lady," he said seriously then, for he knew how much Finduilas loved her city and her people.  She looked at him gravely, and for a moment, Denethor's heart stopped beating, for it almost seemed she would change her mind.  But she simply stepped closer to him and, wrapping her arms around him she leaned her head against his chest and shut her eyes. "I know," she said simply.

Denethor breathed again, and slowly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him.  "I shall speak with your father in the morning, my lady."

She pulled away.  "Yet you still must leave."

"Yes," he answered, "I must, Finduilas, for we cannot be wed ere I get my own father's approval.  But I am sure he shall approve, for he has spoken to me many times upon this subject.  He is displeased that I have delayed this long, and have remained unwed."  Finduilas laughed.

"As is mine," she answered, "He worried that no one would take me, if I waited."  She paused, before she spoke again, "But I did not wish to give my heart to any of those who have desired it, until now."  She paused, and for the first time, his name slipped from her lips, bare of any titles.  "It is yours, Denethor," she whispered, and her eyes met his trustfully.

"Finduilas…" he whispered back, and his hand sought her hair, and he smiled.  It was not often that he could find no words to speak, but he did not understand why she had chosen him over all others, when he was a stern man twice her age.  She smiled back at him, and spoke.

"Do not ask why," she advised him gently, as she pulled away, "It is a joyful thing, and should not be questioned.  Instead, be grateful that we have found each other, and can remain together, for surely it will be."  She cast her glance back across the ocean again, and her smile faded only slightly.  "I shall always remember this night, though the years pass, as the happiest and most beautiful of my life."  She smiled up at him, and he leaned down and kissed her, gently, for he knew no other way of showing his emotions to her.  

He pulled away, and her eyes opened slowly to regard him with the deep, emotional way he now saw she had.  "Goodnight, my lord," she whispered, and slipped from the garden.

Author's Note: And we all know what happened next.  I think I am going to write the next parts (or at least bits of the next parts) of this story, but I think this bit stands by itself.  Series, maybe?  Who knows.  Depends on what weird fancy Cicero the Penguin Muse chooses to take.  Anyway, please review if you have the time and give me any sort of comments that you feel necessary to give me.  Thankies for reading!  --Nat


	2. A Winter of Waiting

**_A Winter of Waiting_**

**_By _**

**_Stargazer Nataku_**

            Finduilas of Dol Amroth stood alone on the wharf, watching as the ship faded into the distance and her eyes, dazzled by the sun sparkling on the water, were unable to see even its mast.  Denethor was gone, leaving behind only a promise that he would send for her in the spring.  She sighed, knowing there was nothing to do but return to the palace, and she did so silently, alone. However, instead of returning to her rooms, she went to the garden they had walked in together and sat down on their bench among the roses.

            There were echoes of him everywhere; the garden felt empty with only the memory of his presence, and even the sound of the sea seemed empty without Denethor's voice accompanying it.  Finduilas reached out and absentmindedly brushed her fingers across the stone beside her, where he had sat.  So lost was she in her thoughts that she did not hear Imrahil's approach until he spoke to her.  "Well, sister," he said, "he's left then?"

            "Yes, he has," Finduilas answered, and withdrew her hand so her brother could sit on the bench beside her.  He was still pale from his recent illness, but the light had returned to his laughing eyes, although at the moment he regarded his sister seriously.  Finduilas met his gaze and did not say anything for a long moment.  

            "You really love him, don't you?"  Finduilas blushed, and it was all the answer her brother needed.  "It must be hard, that he's left."

            "He had to," Finduilas answered stoically.

            "That does not make it any easier, I'm sure," her brother countered.

            "No, it does not," Finduilas admitted, "I miss him already, and it has only been an hour. I do not know how I shall endure a whole winter."

            "You'll have enough to keep you occupied," Imrahil told her, "There's much to prepare, if you're going to be leaving us."  There was a long pause, and he looked away from her.

            "Imrahil…" she began, but her brother jumped to his feet and interrupted her.

            "Let us not think of that today.  I have a mind to go riding, and I think you ought to join me."  Finduilas paused only a moment before she smiled and nodded and allowed Imrahil to help her to her feet as together they went towards the stables.

            Imrahil had been right, for soon Finduilas found herself so busy with sewing and embroidery that she only had time to think after she had retired for the evening and, alone in her rooms, would stand by her window and look out into the garden outside, bathed in the pale winter moonlight.  Then, when all was silent save for the soft lapping of the waves against the shore, Finduilas shut her eyes and remembered, and imagined a day she knew would soon come.

            She read the letter he had written to her, sent upon his return to Minas Tirith to tell her of his journey and his father's blessing of their marriage, countless times in the moonlight.  As the weeks passed, every stroke and letter of his flawless handwriting became more beloved and familiar to her.  It was late when she would lie down to sleep, alone in her bed in a room that never before had seemed too large and empty in the silence of the night.

            It was midmorning, one winter's day, when Finduilas finally went to sit in the room where the women did their embroidery.  Her wedding dress that her mother had painstakingly sewn for her was nearly ready, and now Finduilas herself had to place a few touches of her own on it before it could be sewn together.  Sitting down at the embroidery frame, she began to work, listening to the other women chatting merrily about husbands and children, while her mind strayed to her own happy future.

            "Roses, dearest daughter?" she heard a soft voice in her ear, as her mother bent down beside her to admire her work.

            "Yes," Finduilas answered with a blush.

            "Beautiful," her mother said, sitting down in a chair beside her, as she reached out to touch the soft fabric.

            "Thank you," Finduilas answered, as she made another stitch, "I want it to be.  I would have everything be perfect."

            "That rarely happens, Finduilas," her mother reminded her, "But we shall do all in our power to ensure your day is as perfect as possible."  There was a pause. Finduilas kept working, and her mother watched her for a moment, silent. "It is difficult to think you will soon be leaving us," Eärwen admitted.

            "I dread it also, in some ways," Finduilas told her mother, "It seems impossible that I will be going away, especially so far, and I just do not…I wish I did not have to choose between being with him and being here, in Dol Amroth…"

            "We shall miss you, but I am sure that Lord Denethor would give you leave to visit, should you desire to.  I know it shall not be the same, but it is what happens when a woman weds.  I had to, my mother had to…"

            "I understand it," Finduilas interrupted, "But it does not make it any easier."

            "Nay, but I doubt you would be happy without him, seeing how you're acting even now, when you shall see him in scarce two months."

            "I miss him."

            "I know," her mother said with a smile, "But it will soon be spring."  She gave her daughter's hand a brief squeeze and then rose to return to her own work.

            One bright morning after breakfast, Finduilas found herself walking in the garden.  The breeze once again carried the fresh air of springtime and she breathed it deeply, and she sang as she walked.  Her work finished, she now could do nothing but wait and it became nearly unbearable as the day drew nearer.  She forced herself to sit on the bench, and her mind strayed again, as it most always did, to Denethor, far away in the north.  She wondered what he was doing at that moment while she sat in their garden, listening to the whispering sea and the cry of the gulls, idle and waiting.

            She sighed.  She disliked the waiting, but the thought of leaving…it was both bitter and sweet.  To be with Denethor, to be his wife and live the rest of her life by his side, able to depend on his strength and his love for her…it seemed more than she had ever desired.  Yet, Minas Tirith was far away, and while she waited impatiently to see her new home and meet her new people, the thought of leaving her own people and her family made her heart ache at the same time as it swelled with happiness.

            A gull cried high above, and Finduilas smiled and sought out the gray shape soaring high above the clouds.  How she loved them, and how she would miss them! Yet maybe, she mused, she would no longer need them.  To her, their cries always felt and sounded forlorn, the cry of a creature lost and alone while riding the tempests; they had secretly touched on how she had felt, yearning for someone who she could love while failing time and time again.

            But in three short months, Denethor had changed all that.  Finduilas smiled and finally, in the privacy of the garden, knowing Denethor was miles away, allowed herself to laugh, remembering him drenched and dripping, standing beside the boat, waist deep in water after pitching in headfirst.  Her laughter faded into a smile, and into the girlish daydreams that had been her own since he had departed.

            "Finduilas?"  She was pulled from her dreams by her brother's voice, as he came towards her, an untouchable sadness in his eyes.

            "Yes, Imrahil?" she asked as he came to her side.

            "A ship from Gondor has just arrived."  She jumped to her feet and blushed.

            "It has?"

            "Indeed. Father sent messengers down to greet them, and wishes you to come, for as this undoubtedly concerns you, you should be present."

            "Oh, Imrahil!" she said, and she felt her joy welling up even as her heart sank.  The waiting was over, but now it would soon be time to depart.  She embraced her brother firmly, knowing that his joy and sorrow were mixed as hers was.  Together they walked back towards the palace where their father waited.

            Finduilas stood to her father's right as the messenger entered the hall.  He was a young man of about Imrahil's age, and he came and bowed before the Prince, and spoke in a firm voice.  "My Lord, I bring tidings from my Lord Ecthelion II, Steward of Gondor, and his son and heir, Lord Denethor II."

            "I welcome you to Dol Amroth," her father answered, "Please."  He rose and stepped forward, and the young man did the same with two of the letters he carried, and then spoke again.  

            "This I was told to give directly to the lady, my lord," he continued.  Finduilas blushed and when her father nodded his approval, stepped forward and received the envelope, feeling the young man's eyes upon her, the future wife of his lord.  She did not open the letter, but recognized Denethor's neat handwriting on the outside of the envelope where he had written her name.  She yearned to open it, but would not do so until she was alone.

            Her father, having read through the messages sent him, finally spoke, "All is prepared then?" he asked the young man.

            "Indeed," the messenger answered, "They only await my lady."

            "Then we must not delay long," Adrahil said after a moment's pause, "Finduilas."

            "Father?"

            "How soon can you prepare to depart?"  Shocked by the question, Finduilas gathered her wits together and answered.

            "I can be ready in the morning," she said.

            "Very well then," Adrahil said softly, and there was sadness in his voice, "Is that suitable?" he questioned the messenger.

            "Indeed it is my lord," he answered.

            "Then it shall be so," Adrahil consented, turning to his daughter.  "I think there is much for you to do then."  

            "Yes," Finduilas answered, and for the first time the reality of what was happening struck her.  One more day in her beloved city…one more day before she left her family and her home, which would from then on would be home no longer.  Unable to speak further, Finduilas quickly left the room to find the solitude of her own chambers.  Once there, she sat down on the seat before her window overlooking the sea.  It was open, and a soft breeze caressed her where she sat as she regarded the envelope.  With suddenly trembling fingers she opened the small envelope he had sent and withdrew the letter.

_Beloved Finduilas,_

_            I cannot begin to tell you how long this winter has been, for indeed it seemed the longest of my life.  I have yearned for you from the moment my ship left the harbor, and my yearning has only increased with the passage of the months.  From today, when the ship shall depart to bring you here, it shall be nearly impossible to wait to see your smiling face again. _

_            I know the parting shall be difficult for you, and I shall never be able to express how your sacrifice of home and family for a life here touches me.  To think that you would leave all that you have always loved to be with me is a humbling thought.  I hope that together, you and I may build a home here that you can love and cherish as much as your own city.  I have worked hard to create the beginnings of that home, and when you come, we shall finish it together, one piece at a time._

_            I wait impatiently for your coming, dearest Finduilas.  My people and I are ready to welcome you to our city, and to give you an honored place among us, for there is no honor too great for you.  I selfishly wish you a swift journey, so that fewer days may stand between us.         _

_–Denethor_

Finduilas finished, and folded the letter with a smile coming to her face even though there were tears in her eyes.  Indeed this day was both bitter and sweet, as tears of sorrow and tears of joy mingled on her pale face.  She turned to look around her room, pausing for a moment, before there was a knock on her door.  "Enter!" Finduilas called, and the door swung open and her mother stepped in.

            "I thought you would appreciate some help," she said to her daughter.

            "I would, mother," Finduilas answered with a smile.  If her mother saw the tear stains on her cheeks that Finduilas had attempted to hastily wipe away, she said nothing, merely opened the trunk that sat nearly empty at the foot of the bed.  "This should be big enough, I wager," her mother mused, "It is quite large, and only a quarter full anyway. I've already set Isëlmra to pack some of the other things you shall take with you, but we shall pack your clothes and things here." Her mother walked over to the wardrobe and opened it wide and began to draw some of her daughter's dresses from within.  "Your father and I were speaking yesterday," she began again as she handed the dresses to her daughter to carry over to the bed.  "And if you wish it, your brother can accompany you."

            "Are you sure, Mother?" Finduilas turned from her trunk and met her mother's eyes.

            "Yes, of course," Eärwen assured her daughter, "We do not wish you to go alone, by any means.  I wish I could come with you, but if your father cannot, then I would stay here."

            "I understand mother," Finduilas answered, "I was not thinking that any of you would come, but it would ease me to know that Imrahil will be there."

            "I thought so," her mother answered, "What you must do is not easy, for Minas Tirith will be very different from our city.  It will be a lonely time for you, daughter, but it will not last."  She handed Finduilas the last of her dresses, and the young woman folded it carefully and laid it atop the others.  Together they picked up a few more of the small things Finduilas had lying around her room; a few smooth rocks from the beach, a beautiful carved wooden box that her grandfather had made her, and various other objects that had marked the room as hers.

            When they had finished, Eärwen took and squeezed her daughter's hand, and spoke gently.  "I wish to give you my gift now, before the morning, Finduilas."  She quickly left the room and, having gone into the sitting room, came back with a package wrapped in white.  She handed it to her daughter, who laid it on the bed and opened it, drawing from within a beautiful deep blue cloak embroidered with silver stars.  Finduilas gasped.

            "Mother, it is beautiful!"  She put it on, closing the silver clasp about her neck.  It was a heavy garment, made for the cool nights and colder winters in her new home, and the weight pressed reassuringly on her shoulders.  She drew it close about her and then turned to her mother.  "Thank you," she said, her voice filled with gratitude, tears in her eyes.  Her mother returned her smile, and came over to adjust it on her shoulders.

            "I wanted you to have something fitting for the wife of the future Steward, and something special that I had made."

            "It is beautiful.  I will wear it with pride."  Finduilas carefully undid the clasp and folded the cloak carefully, rewrapping it in the white cloth and laying it on top of her trunk.  She glanced around again to be sure nothing was forgotten, and then closed the trunk gently.  The afternoon had passed quickly, and it was about an hour before sunset.  Finduilas' heart skipped a beat, as she realized that this would be the last evening spent in her childhood home, and she suddenly felt a strong desire to go walking by the shores of the sea.  Her mother smiled, as if she overheard Finduilas' thoughts, and spoke gently.

            "Why don't you go walking, daughter? The sun will be setting soon, and it promises to be beautiful.  I'm sure Imrahil would join you."

            "I think I will," Finduilas agreed, "Thank you for your help, mother."

            "I am always glad to give it, Finduilas.  Now go.  I'll send your brother to find you."

            "All right."  

            Finduilas went down to the wharfs, and stood on the same spot where she had waited for Imrahil and Denethor months previous.  She knew her brother would look for her there, and he did, after only a few minutes had passed.  He spoke little, only asking, "Our beach?" Finduilas nodded, and followed him into the boat, shutting her eyes and letting go of all thought.  She allowed herself to feel, and in that moment, a smile crept across her face as she let herself go.  The smell of the sea was all about her, the cries of the gulls and the sounds of the waves lapping against the boat were in her ears, and the sea air tangled itself in her long black hair which she had not tied up as she usually did, but instead allowed it to fly free in the brisk breeze.  The boat glided across the water, riding the gentle swells of the waves, and a fierce joy rushed through her at the mix of sensations.  How she loved this!  How she would miss it!

            She felt the boat crunch against sand and, removing her shoes, stepped lightly from it onto the beach.  She did not feel like walking so, holding her skirts up above the water, she waded out into the water and climbed up onto one of the rocks in the shallows.  She sat, facing west, and watched as the sun slowly began to sink towards the horizon.

            Imrahil came to sit beside her, but neither sibling spoke.  Finduilas felt the air of melancholy becoming almost tangible between them, and she spoke softly.  "I wonder if I shall be able to easily watch the sun set in Minas Tirith."

            "I do not know," Imrahil answered.

            "I hope so," Finduilas answered, "Though I doubt they shall be as beautiful as this."  She took a deep breath, inhaling the pungent sea air tinted with the scent of flowers.  They sat silently for a long moment, watching the sun and the waves and hearing the gentle lapping of water on shore and the forlorn cries of the gulls.  Finduilas fancied they were saying goodbye to her in the only way they could, with their mournful music.

            "I am glad I can accompany you," her brother finally said, breaking the stillness.  "It will not be the same here after you have gone."  Finduilas smiled sadly.

            "I shall miss it all," she said softly.

            "I know," her brother answered, and he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer as the sun slipped completely behind the water.  "We should return, before it is too dark to see the rocks."

            "Yes," Finduilas agreed, and together they waded back over to the boat, heading back home for the farewell feast their father had arranged for his only daughter.

            The next morning dawned bright and clear. The ship from Minas Tirith sat waiting, already loaded, as Finduilas, Adrahil, Imrahil, and Eärwen stood together on the dock.  Many of the people of the city were gathered on the wharfs to wish Finduilas goodbye, for she was much loved in the city, and she had spoken soft words to them.  Yet now was the time of parting that Finduilas dreaded.  Imrahil stood by her side, facing their parents, and for a moment, no one spoke, but they simply looked at each other, eyes full of sadness and love.  It was Adrahil that broke the silence.  "Dearest daughter," he said softly, and he reached out and took her hand.  There was grief mingled with happiness in his clear eyes, and he pulled her into an embrace, "I shall miss you.  Do not grieve overmuch that you must leave us, for though it is indeed sad, you shall always have a place here for you and your husband.  Return whenever you will and can be spared.  I just ask that you be happy, Finduilas."

            "I will.  Thank you, father," Finduilas said, pulling him closer for just a moment before she pulled away and turned to her mother.

            "Finduilas," Eärwen said, and she too embraced her daughter, "I wish you joy, and pray the Valar shall keep sorrow from you as long as you can be spared it."

            "Thank you, mother."  Adrahil glanced past Finduilas to the captain of the ship, who was looking impatient.  

            "It is time," he said gently, "Carry our love with you always, my child, and be content."  Finduilas nodded, feeling tears coming to her eyes.  But Imrahil gently put his hand on her shoulder, and together the siblings boarded the ship, and Finduilas forced herself to not look back until they were aboard and the gangplank was pulled up.

            She watched her parents grow smaller on the pier, until finally they could no longer be seen, and even the city itself had disappeared into the distance.  When it was no longer visible, she went below to the quarters that she and Imrahil would share, and laid down, shutting her eyes tightly as she attempted to reconcile her joy with her sorrow.

            When Finduilas and Imrahil and their entourage left the ship, several days later, they were met by guards of the Citadel, who waited on the bank of the river.  At their head stood a tall man with black hair and soft grey eyes, wearing a silver star on his dark cloak.  When Finduilas and Imrahil were before him he bowed low.  "My Lord, my Lady," he said in a strong voice, "I am Thorongil, sent by Lord Ecthelion to conduct you safely to Minas Tirith, and to welcome you to Gondor."

            "I thank you for your troubles," Imrahil answered, "I am Imrahil, and this is the Lady Finduilas."  Finduilas smiled at the man before her and bowed, but did not speak.  

            "The ride is long from here to Minas Tirith," Thorongil then said, "And we had best depart, so we may arrive in the White City near sundown or shortly thereafter.  Can you ride, my lady?"

            "Of course," Finduilas answered, and he nodded.

            "I do not mean to offend," he answered, "But in Minas Tirith many women know not how."  He took the reigns of another horse offered to him, and handed them to her.  

            "His name is Gildin, my Lady, and he is gentle."  Finduilas nodded, and with a little help from her brother, was soon mounted, glad she had changed into her riding clothes.

            They rode at a fast pace for the majority of the day, and Finduilas spoke little, though Thorongil occasionally spoke to her and told her particulars about Gondor and the White City itself.  "Were you born in Gondor?" she asked once, when she was tired of the silence about them, broken only by the pounding of the horses' hooves.

            "No, my lady," Thorongil answered her, "I was born far to the north, in the wilds of Eriador, among the men who yet dwell there."

            "So far away!" she answered.

            "Indeed," Thorongil answered, and for a moment his face had a far away look to it, a pained look.  It passed quickly, but not before Finduilas marked it.

            "I did not mean to upset you, Lord Thorongil," she said quickly.

            "You did not upset me, my lady," he answered, and there was a pause, "I desired to depart my home and travel to the southlands.  Yet it has been many years since I walked the lands of my birth, and seen the people who I yet love.  I know not how they fare, in the darkness of this later age of the world."

            "It must be hard," Finduilas answered, "This is the first time I have left Dol Amroth, except to visit my mother's kin, who lived only a half-day's journey down the coast."

            "Come sister, there is a wider world than our city; did you not desire to see it?" Imrahil interjected, with a youthful smile.

            "Indeed," Finduilas answered, "Yet it is so strange here, dark…"  Finduilas had known, of course, that Mordor was near her new home, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of it.  It was dark and sinister, and the very image filled her with dread as the flames from distant Orodruin burned red against the blackness of the sky above it.  In the distance, she could see Osigiliath ruined, and the emptiness of the lands along the Anduin.  Here and there, there was a company of soldiers, camped out or marching across the plains, or riding swift horses.

            At least the grass across which they were riding was green, Finduilas decided, resolutely looking forward to where, in the distance, she tried to catch a glimpse of her new home.

            "The darkness to the east is ever growing," Thorongil said softly as he could to be heard over the pounding hooves, "Yet there is still hope, my lady.  The darkness cannot last forever, for the night is always followed by a new dawn."  Then he smiled.  "There," he continued, pointing towards the horizon, "Minas Tirith."

            Finduilas turned her gaze from the men at her side and looked ahead.  The sun was already dipping low on the horizon, but it finally caught against a glimmer of white at the base of the mountains in the distance.  She could discern a high tower, rising above it, with the Steward's banners caught in the breeze.  It glowed in the fading sunlight, shining golden above the fertile fields.  Closer still was a great wall, and Finduilas noticed they were heading towards a large gate in it.  "The Rammas Echor," Thorongil stated, "We'll pass through it onto the Pelennor, where there are many farms, and go on to the White City.  We shall arrive about the time dinner is laid out."

            "That is a blessing," Finduilas added, for she was hungry, but more than hungry she was tired.

            "You must be weary," Thorongil said, "Do not be troubled, it will not be long."

Finduilas nodded and kept her gaze on the great city before her.  There was home.  She had to admit, it was as beautiful as Denethor had described.  The black outer wall shone dark about the brightness of the pure white stone walls above, and over it all the Tower of Ecthelion stood watch like a stern sentinel, ever vigilant. The banners there hung nearly still, for there was scarcely a breeze, and it seemed as if the world was frozen in waiting.  Then suddenly, there was a sound from afar, a clear ringing of many trumpets, and Finduilas found herself smiling.  Their sound, while not the cry of the gulls, was beautiful, and seemed to call to her as she approached, beckoning her onward.

            "They have seen us," Thorongil told her, "They blow the trumpets to welcome you, my lady."

            "It is beautiful," her brother said, bringing his horse beside hers.

            "Yes," Finduilas answered, suddenly nervous now the city was so near.  Yet before she knew it, the entourage had ridden through the great gate in the thick, black outer wall, and a cheer went up from many who were assembled on the walls of the city to watch her arrival.  And there, just within the gate, Denethor sat waiting on his own horse.  The moment she saw him, all her sadness and weariness disappeared and she rode to his side and reached out to squeeze his hand.  Under the clamor of the people crying their welcomes to her, Denethor spoke, and Finduilas smiled at his words, reading the joy in his eyes.  "Welcome home, my lady."

            Together, side by side, they rode up through the city, Thorongil and Imrahil riding behind them, and Finduilas was amazed at the beauty and workmanship of the city.  The buildings gleamed white and strong, a solid remnant of a time long past.  When they arrived at the Citadel, they rode into a small garden, from which the Tower of Ecthelion rose high above them.  Their horses were taken from them, and Denethor took her hand and lead her within to a great hall.

            It was already set up for the feast, but in an ornate chair at the front of the hall, a white haired man sat, ever alert.  When she entered he rose, and a smile broke across his face.  Denethor led her forward, and gave a slight bow, and Finduilas did so as well, sensing her brother a step behind her.

            "Father," Denethor said, "May I present Finduilas."  The old man was beaming at her, and he reached out and took her hand, pressing his lips to the back.

            "It is an honor to meet you, my lady."

            "I thank you for your warm welcome."

            "And this is her brother, Lord Imrahil," Denethor continued, and Imrahil stepped forward and bowed.

            "My Lord."

            "Glad am I indeed to meet the son of Adrahil," Ecthelion told the young man with a kindly smile, "And joyful that one of the Lady's kinsmen could make the journey."  He made a motion, and in a moment a page was at the Steward's side.  "Please escort Lord Imrahil to his chambers.  Undoubtedly he is weary.  If you need anything, my lord," he continued, addressing Imrahil, "Do not hesitate to ask for it.  I shall send another when the feast is laid out."

            "Thank you, my Lord," Imrahil said with a bow, and turned to follow the page.  When he had disappeared, the Steward smiled at Finduilas, who found herself smiling back, feeling already comfortable with the aging steward.  When he spoke, however, it was to his son.

            "I thought you would wish to escort your lady to her chambers."

            "Of course, Father," Denethor said, and turned to Finduilas, his face neutral while his eyes were smiling, "Come, my lady."  Finduilas bowed again to the Steward and turned with Denethor, walking by his side.  They were silent even after they had disappeared into the hallways of the Citadel, and were alone, but Finduilas felt keenly his presence by her side, though they did not touch, and her heart sang with joy.  She felt a blush creeping into her cheeks, and she glanced up at Denethor, walking proudly by her side.

            Almost as if he sensed her gaze, he looked down at her, but Finduilas did not look away.  He paused, and looked forward and back down the hallway, before stopping completely.  She followed suit, and turned to face him, and she broke the silence as he pulled her into his arms. "I've missed you so," she confessed, pulling him as tightly to her as she could, feeling her heart burning with joy.

            "And I you, my lady," he answered, "The winter seemed endless."  He pulled away only slightly, keeping her within the circle of his arms.  "How does your new home please you?"  She met his eyes, and saw his intense desire for her to love his city as he did, and she paused before speaking.        

            "The city is beautiful," she told him, "I should very much like to see more of it."

            "Yet you are troubled by something," Denethor prompted.

            "I…I did not realize that Mordor should be so close." She shivered, remembering the blackness of the eastern lands and the fires gleaming against the ashen clouds that hung above the dead land, "The sight of it…it is terrifying."

            "Indeed it is," Denethor said, "I had not thought of it, for I am used to the sight and have lived all my life under the shadows of the Black Land.  Perhaps it will not seem so threatening on a day the sun shines."

            "Perhaps not," she agreed, hoping that it would be true.

            "I promise you, Finduilas, that you never need fear the darkness to the east.  No conqueror has ever entered the city, for the outer wall is impenetrable, and her great gate is nigh unbreakable."

            "I trust you," Finduilas said, "And I expect I shall grow used to it in time.  It is simply…far different from Dol Amroth."

            "Yes," Denethor said softly, "It is.  But I hope you can be happy here."

            "If you are here, it is all I need," Finduilas answered, just as softly, smiling up at him.  Denethor leaned down and kissed her softly.

            "And tomorrow," Denethor said, "We shall be married."

            "Must we delay so long?" Finduilas asked, and there was a sparkle of merriment in her eyes.  He smiled back and squeezed her hand.

            "Unfortunately, yes," he answered, "We thought to have the ceremony mid-afternoon tomorrow, if that pleases you.  It will give all the morning to prepare."

            "It is perfect," Finduilas assured him, "Although I wish it could indeed have been this afternoon, for now that I am here, even a day's delay seems too long."  She smiled, and they continued on down the corridor, still clasping their hands.

            "Your things should have been brought by now," he said as they reached the door.  "Please, I'll wait for you here.  Take your time."  She smiled at him, and squeezed his hand before reaching out and opening the door.

            The room was larger than her chambers in Dol Amroth, and beautiful in a different way.  There was a blazing fire already lit in the large fireplace, for the evening was cool, but it warmed the room nicely as Finduilas laid her traveling cloak on the bed.  The walls were grey stone, and the furniture was the same color wood as the ceiling beams.

            Someone had already unpacked her things, and Finduilas found her hairbrush and comb beside a basin of warm water waiting for her on the vanity.  She smiled in thankfulness, and went over to the wardrobe, finding her gowns already waiting.  She selected one of the new ones, for the night was cold, and her thinner dresses suited for the climate of Dol Amroth would not suit.  It was a beautiful dark emerald green dress that fit her slim body nicely, and brought out the color of her eyes.  The bodice was embroidered with golden thread in a design of the sea flowers and vines she loved so well, and the neck and cuffs were edged with a thin band of lace her mother had knitted with gold thread.  

            She put it on and then walked over to the basin, washing the dirt of the road away from her face and hands, then carefully unbraided her hair and brushed it out until it was again smooth and braided it quickly, wrapping it into a bun on the back of her head.  She had never had the ability to do more complicated hairstyles herself, and it was undoubtedly true that Isëlmra, who had agreed to come with her mistress, was off resting.  Finduilas did not mind this, in fact she had wished it, and so she did the best she could.  When she had finished, she regarded herself critically in the mirror, holding up the candle that had been burning on the vanity, and gave a satisfied nod.  She felt better, although she wished there was time for a complete bath, but she did not trouble herself with it.  Instead, she tucked a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, slid a pair of green slippers onto her feet, and walked back over to the door again to find Denethor still waiting on the other side. 

            When the door opened, he turned to her with a smile.  "You are beautiful, my lady.  Is that a new dress?  I do not recall seeing it in my time in your city."

            "It is indeed new," she said, surprised that he had taken that close a look at her clothing, "For it is cooler here than in my home.  My mother did all the work herself, last winter."

            "Indeed so," he said, and he offered her his arm, which she gladly took as they began to walk back towards the great hall.  "How fare your parents?"

            "They are well," Finduilas answered, "Although I am sure they miss me, and Imrahil."

            "I wish it was not necessary for you to leave your family behind," Denethor told her softly.

            "I know," Finduilas answered, "But it will be harder for them than it is for me I am sure." She said, "I came to find and form a new family, while they must face the missing piece in their own.  But do not worry about them, for they know that I have made my choice and, though I indeed shall miss them, I will be happy here."  She smiled at Denethor confidently, and for a brief moment, pressed her head against the side of his shoulder as they walked.

            The next morning, Finduilas awoke early, when it was still dark, and lay awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, happiness shining on her face.  She was loath to move, but there was much to be done, and when Isëlmra came bustling in with breakfast on a tray, Finduilas took the hint and got out of bed, wrapping a robe around her as she sat down at the small table where the other woman had placed her food.

            Isëlmra was an older woman of fifty, and she had been Finduilas' nurse when she had been a child.  She had never before left Dol Amroth, but when she had been told that 'her girl' would be leaving, she had given a resolute frown and declared that no other servant but herself would accompany her lady to her new life.  Finduilas felt the urge to chuckle when the older woman had declared, "I was there when my girl came in to this world, and it is my duty to stay with her until I leave it."  

            She was just as energetic this morning as she usually was, as she threw open the curtains and stoked the fire to new life.  "Well, my lady," she said, "The happy day's here.  Be sure to eat all of that, even if you're not hungry.  I didn't bring much in to begin with, for you are nervous, yes?"

            "Yes," Finduilas admitted.

            "Dear child, all women are on their wedding day."  She paused and looked at Finduilas for a moment, who ate a piece of fruit to appease her, "You're not having second thoughts are you?"

            "Never!" Finduilas answered, with such an intense look that Isëlmra was satisfied.

            "Good.  Well you finish eating that, and then we'd best get started.  There's much to do before this afternoon.  Dear me, it's so hard to believe.  My lady, I am so excited that I couldn't sit still even if I had the time, which I don't."  She bustled around, making the bed as she talked, and generally setting everything to rights.  Finduilas had finished eating and just watched her work with an amused smile on her face.

            "Did you send my gift to Denethor?" Finduilas asked.  To pass the winter, she had made and carefully sewed and embroidered a cloak for him.  It was black, and embroidered on the back was the symbol of the Stewards in silver.

            "I did indeed my lady," Isëlmra answered, "I did not give it to him directly, for he was occupied, but I gave it to a young man who assured he would get it."

            "Thank you," Finduilas answered, and the woman nodded, and came back over to the table.

            "Well you relax a bit, and I'll take care of these dishes, and then we'll see what we can do to get you to look as beautiful as ever you did.  Not that you need much help, my dear."  And she picked up the tray and left the room.

            Finduilas smiled and walked over to the window in her chamber, opening it wide.  It looked north, she decided, for away to the right she could see the glimmer of sunlight on the Anduin, for indeed the sun was shining brightly and the day was warm and beautiful.  Denethor had been right.  Everything did indeed look even brighter and more welcoming in the spring sunshine, and with the northerly view, she could not see Mordor at all from her vantage point.  True, she could not hear the soft whisper of the sea, and there were no gulls to sing their mournful songs, but there was the sound of a city awaking, and excited for the coming day.

            Finduilas smiled, and sat herself down on the small ledge in front of the window, and calmly waited until Isëlmra returned, with a pair of packages in her hands.  "My lady, Lord Denethor has sent these for you. I'm told these are very fragile…"  Finduilas smiled and took the fragile package and unwrapped it carefully.  Inside, there lay three red roses, perfectly formed, and a small note.  She read it aloud, so Isëlmra could also know what it said.  "Beloved, when I left last winter, your mother gave me several rosebushes from our garden, and I had them planted.  These are the first blooms they have given.  I hope you can put them to some use.  Denethor."  When her eyes met her former nurse's, they were glimmering with tears.  "This is the most beautiful gift I have ever been given," she said, "Valar bless them both."

            "Indeed it is, dear," the older woman said, "But it is not the only gift."  The servant handed her the next package while taking the roses and laying them in the washbasin to keep them fresh.  In the meantime, Finduilas opened the second and gasped.  It was a beautiful silver necklace, with strands entwined in a knot pattern, in the center of which was a design of three swans, set together in a circle.[*] 

            "Now that is beautiful!" the older woman said, with a glance to what Finduilas held.

            "Indeed, it is lovely," Finduilas said earnestly, smiling as she attached the silver chain around her neck.  "This will suit better than the necklace I was planning to wear today."

            "I would think that is what your lord is hoping," Isëlmra said, "That'll last you all your life, my dear, and it'll always help you remember where you came from."

            "How could I forget?" Finduilas asked, taking off the necklace and laying it on her vanity to be put on again later.

            "I don't suppose you could," Isëlmra answered, "Now come, my lady.  There's much to do."

            The time flew by, it seemed, and before she knew it, Finduilas was ready, standing in front of the mirror in the room and regarding herself critically.  Isëlmra had done her hair into a complicated knot on the back of her head, set low at the nape of her neck, and pinned the roses so they stood out vibrantly red against the black of her hair.  Her dress had been pressed, so it looked fresh and clean, and the embroidery at the bottom and wrists stood out brightly against the white fabric she had chosen.  The necklace shone at her neck.  Finduilas suddenly wished she were ten years younger, but then chided herself for being foolish.  Denethor certainly did not care; if anything he considered her young and beautiful because she was twenty years his junior.  And she was still pretty, even though she could not consider herself as beautiful as she had been ten years previously, and it was foolish to think on it.

            "You're beautiful," Isëlmra said, interrupting her thoughts as she nodded approvingly over Finduilas' shoulder, "There isn't a person in all of Gondor who would not think so."  Finduilas opened her mouth to reply, but a knock on the door interrupted her.

            Isëlmra went and opened it, and then stepped back and Imrahil stepped in.  He was smiling, dressed in his best clothes, and he looked her over with an approving eye.  "You are beautiful, sister," he said, as he came over and took her hand and kissed her cheek.  "Are you ready?"

            "Indeed I am," she answered, and she returned his smile without letting go of his hand.

            "It is hard to believe that this day is finally here," he then admitted, "I wish you every joy imaginable, Finduilas."

            "Thank you, Imrahil," she said, and brother and sister embraced.

            "Is there anything you need me to do?" her brother asked.

            "Not at present except…" she reached up and straightened the collar on his tunic, and Imrahil laughed.

            "How will I ever dress myself if you are not around?" he asked.

            "I suppose you will just have to manage," Finduilas said, taking a step back and looking him over.  "Very handsome," she commented.

            "Am I acceptable then?" he asked.

            "Of course," she told her little brother, and they were silent for a long moment, just looking at each other.  

            "I wish everything did not have to change so," Imrahil admitted, "What will I do without my 'Mother' Finduilas?" he asked, giving her again the nickname he had given her when he was a boy, and she had indeed acted like a second mother to him.  Finduilas smiled, and squeezed his hand.

            "You will have to visit," Finduilas answered, "I know it will not be the same, but…"  She embraced him again.  "I wish I did not have to choose.  I do not love you any less because I love Denethor.  Do you understand?"

            "Of course I do, sister-mine," Imrahil assured her, "I wish happiness, and I know that this is where you'll find it."  There was another knock on the door.  Isëlmra, who had been standing to the side, went to open it to find another page there who bowed and spoke.

            "Everything is ready, if the Lady is prepared," he said.

            "I am," Finduilas answered firmly, though there was happy nervousness in her face.  She turned to Isëlmra, who wiped away tears and smiled.  

            "Good luck, my lady," she said, "I don't dare come, for I fear I shall embarrass you with tears."

            "Come anyway," Finduilas insisted, "I would have you there, for you are all dressed and ready and the closest to family I have here, save Imrahil."

            "Well a place in the back then, dear," Isëlmra said, "For its not fitting you know."

            "I think it is, and Denethor would deny me nothing," Finduilas answered, "Now go on then."  She then turned to her brother and they exchanged smiles, before he kissed her forehead and offered her his arm.  Together they left the room.

            When they arrived in the garden, there was a great group assembled, most of whom Finduilas did not know.  Ecthelion stood in front of the assembly, Denethor standing by his side, and Isëlmra took her place to the side, where she could still see but not be seen.  Finduilas quaked a bit inside, nervous in front of all the strangers, and her grasp on Imrahil's arm grew a bit stronger as she became thankful for his steadying presence beside her.  She took one step, and then another, the nervousness welling up inside her as she stared resolutely forward.

            Yet she chanced to look at Denethor, and met his eyes, and the confidence she saw within them calmed her own nervousness, and she felt a smile growing on her face.  By the time she was by his side, looking up into his grey eyes, her nervousness was gone.  She gently pulled away from her brother's arm, kissing him lightly on the cheek and giving him a quick embrace, before she took Denethor's hands in her own and met his eyes with the same confidence that had been in his.  The rest of the assembly did not matter; there was only Denethor, his stern features softened into a smile that was for her alone.

            Finduilas never remembered the ceremony itself, only the calm feeling of rightness that spread through her and allowed her to calmly and confidently, though quietly, speak the words that bound her to him forever.  And she listened as Denethor made the same promise as they stood together in the garden, under the shadow of the White Tower on a sunny June afternoon.

            The festivities that followed were a blur.  Finduilas had never before been introduced to so many new people at once, and faces and names began to merge together until she was not quite sure who anyone was.  She remained close by Denethor's side, but they did not speak much in the general whirl of excitement.  When Denethor took her hand for the first dance, and led her out onto the floor, she was thankful it was a slower dance, for she was weary already.  He smiled down at her, and spoke softly so no one else could hear as the music started and they began to move.  "You look tired."

            "I am," she said softly, "And I do not think I shall remember anyone's name…"

            "That is not important," Denethor said, "It will come in time."  They took a few more steps, waltzing to the music.  "Do not worry.  It will not be long before we can retire." He smiled, and she knew he was happy.  She returned his loving look.

            "That will be a relief," she said, and even more softly, "I shall be glad to go."  At that moment the music ended and they remained standing together until Finduilas felt a hand on her shoulder.  

            "May I borrow your wife?" Imrahil's cheerful voice interjected, "I would like to claim a dance from my sister."

            "Of course," Denethor answered and Finduilas squeezed his hand before turning to her brother.  Denethor went back to sit and watch her, for he did indeed love to watch her dance, and even more so when it was she and her brother.  She and Imrahil danced well; it was apparent from watching them that they had learned the art together, and together they danced with a gracefulness that he had not often seen.  He cast a glance around the room and saw that many of those who were not dancing were watching his new bride and her brother with interest.

            "You made a good choice, my son," he heard then, suddenly, and he turned to see the steward was watching his wife as well, "I hope you both shall be very happy."

            "I believe we will be, father," Denethor answered, as the music ended.

            "I wonder if she would accept a dance from an old man."  Denethor smiled, and when he spoke there was laughter in his voice.

            "She already has," he told his father.

            "If you are old, then I do not wish to know how you would classify _me," the aging steward said with a glance at his son, even as he rose to his feet and walked over to where Finduilas was standing beside her brother.  He bowed and she took her new father-in-law's hand with a smile as Imrahil came and sat beside Denethor.  The music started again, slower, for the steward could no longer dance the livelier dances, and the men were silent for a several minutes before Imrahil spoke._

            "You've won a fair prize, my lord," he said, "And I hope you shall always remain worthy of it."

            "Your sister deems me worthy."

            "Indeed she does, as do I and our parents.  But if I ever hear that you have hurt her, I shall not be pleased, and I will protect her."

            "You have my word," Denethor said, with a solemn look at the young man.  Imrahil nodded in acceptance.

            "I trust you," he said as the music ended, and then rose to give Finduilas his seat.  She collapsed into it, breathless, and smiled at Denethor.  It was an open, honest, smile that made the light dance in her beautiful green eyes and said more to her husband than words could have.

            The rest of the evening passed quickly, and it was late when the steward rose to his feet.  "Before we have one last dance," he declared, "I wish to thank you all, and I wish to once again extend my welcome to the Lady Finduilas."  He turned to her with a smile, "I hope you shall find happiness here, though you have the thankless task of keeping my son in line!"  He laughed, and Finduilas felt herself smiling warmly back at him.             

            "Thank you," she said simply, and allowed him to kiss her hand.  

            "Now then!" Ecthelion proclaimed, "One last dance!"  Finduilas caught Denethor's smile and nodded in agreement to his unspoken question.  He took her hand, and together they went out onto the floor as the band started playing.

            It was the same dance they had danced first, the night of his welcoming feast in Dol Amroth, and Finduilas felt her smile widening as they began the quick steps to the merry music.  "Did you arrange this, my lord?" she asked, interrupting Denethor at a particularly difficult moment in the steps, as he was casting a glance down at his feet.    
            "Arrange what?" he asked, looking back up in the proper manner.

            "This dance," she said, "This is the first we ever danced together."  He gave a guilty smile, and was about to answer when he managed to step on one of her feet.  This threw off his rhythm, and they ended the dance completely off beat and laughing.

            "Good night!" the steward was calling, as the remaining guests began to depart, many of whom wished the breathless couple a good evening as they remained standing together with smiles on their faces.

            Imrahil was one of the last to come, and he clasped Denethor's hand in a gesture of friendship and embraced his sister warmly.  "Good night," he said to them, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he leaned over and whispered something in Denethor's ear that made the steward's heir blush.  With that, Imrahil smiled at his sister one last time, while she was looking back at him with a horrified gaze, wondering just what her brother had said that would make Denethor, who was usually unflappable, look so uncomfortable.  

            "What did he say to you?" she asked her husband.  Denethor cleared his throat and smiled at her.

            "Nothing important."  She shot him her best 'I don't believe you' look, but was interrupted from questioning him further by the Steward, who came over to them and cast a firm glance at his son.

            "Take good care of her, Denethor," Ecthelion said, "And you, my lady," he said with a smile at Finduilas, "I wish you luck.  You are wed to the most stubborn man that ever walked under the sun."  He kissed her hand and smiled kindly at his son.  "Good night then.  It is time for this old man to seek out his bed."

            "Good night," Finduilas answered.

            "You are weary also, my lady?" Denethor asked her.

            "Indeed," she said.

            "Then we had best seek out our own bed."  Finduilas felt suddenly shy, but she smiled.

            "I think we ought," she said.

            They walked in silence for a few moments down the already empty hallways before Denethor spoke.  "I think you shall have to teach me to dance," Denethor said to her, "For I think I should improve more quickly if I had you to help me, so your feet no longer need fall victim to my skills."

            "I would be glad to," she answered, "I love it so.  And you are not a bad dancer."

            "Nay, I know how, but I do not have the grace as you do.  It is like comparing an oliphaunt to a steed of Rohan. Both can walk and run yet the horse will do so with far more elegance than a lumbering oliphaunt."  Finduilas laughed.

            "You are far more handsome than an oliphaunt, my lord," she objected, "And not even that clumsy.  There is no comparison."  She laughed again, and her green eyes sparkled as she clung lightly to his arm, walking by his side.  

            "I am glad you think so highly of me, my lady," Denethor answered.

            "You know I do," Finduilas told him.

            "Indeed," Denethor said, "Here we are.  I hope you did not unpack much last night, for I had all your things moved this evening.  These are our chambers."  He opened the door for her, and motioned her in first.  The room was much the same as the old, save it was larger and there were four very beautiful, rich tapestries hanging on the stone walls.  There were large windows through which she could see the stars shining.  "Those windows face south," Denethor told her, "I thought it would be best, when I chose them.  And look," he took her hand and led her over to a wooden door.  He opened it, and when she had gone out, followed her. It was a small balcony that looked out over a garden below.  The smell of flowers wafted up to her and Finduilas turned to Denethor with a smile on her face.  "It is a small garden," Denethor said, "And I shall show you how to reach it in the morning.  It is ours now.  Perhaps it is not the same as in Dol Amroth, but it has a piece of your fair city."  He pointed down to the corner. "I had the rosebushes planted there, and I had a bench put there for you.  In time, this whole garden could be roses if you wish.  Not much else has been planted here, for it is small and out of the way, not like the larger gardens."

            "It is perfect," Finduilas said, and without reserve, reached up and touched the side of his face, feeling tears coming to her eyes.  Denethor must have seen them, for he frowned, and took her other hand in his.

            "What is the matter?" he asked.

            "Nothing," Finduilas answered in a whisper, "These are tears of joy."  He bent down and kissed her gently, and then pulled her into a tight embrace.  "I love you," she whispered.

            "I love you also, dearest Finduilas," he said, pulling away and gently stroking her cheek, and she felt her shyness and reservation disappearing.  Suddenly, she frowned as if she had remembered something, and spoke again.

            "What did Imrahil say to you before?" she asked, "I have never seen you blush so."  Denethor cleared his throat and his gaze grew mischievous.  He came closer to her, and put his hands gently on her waist before leaning in, and whispering in her ear.  

            "He said you were ticklish," Denethor admitted, as he made a sudden attack on Finduilas' ribs.  She laughed and tried to pull away, for she was indeed very ticklish, but only succeeded in getting as far as the stone railing of the balcony before she was effectively trapped.

            "No fair…" she gasped through her laughter, "You have no siblings to tell me things such as this!"  He paused.  

            "No fair?  I suppose not," he said, "I shall stop."  He smiled at her, though his hands remained on her waist, and for a moment they simply looked at each other, as Finduilas straightened.

            "I have never seen this playful side of you, my lord," she said, pretending to be upset, "To think, the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor tickling others like children do.  I think you owe me an apology, for you are obviously not the man I thought I married."

            "Well I sincerely apologize, my lady, and if there is anything I can do to gain your forgiveness, I beg you tell me."

             "Well," Finduilas answered, pretending to be weighing her options in her head, "I think another kiss would be in order."

            "Gladly," Denethor said, "As many as my lady wishes, for as long as my lady wishes."

            "Make that a promise," Finduilas answered him, leaning into his arms as he wrapped them around her, "And I am satisfied."  She was answered by his lips on hers.

            The sun was already streaming in the windows, for neither Finduilas nor Denethor had thought to close the curtains the night before, when Finduilas awoke the next morning.  Always slow to return to consciousness, it took her a few moments to realize that she was very warm, and very comfortable, and that she was lying on her side and Denethor's arms were still wrapped protectively around her.  Her eyes slowly opened, and she turned slightly to look up at her husband.  He was wide awake and smiling down at her, his grey eyes amused.  "Good morning," he said gently, and bent down to kiss her softly.  

            "Good morning," she answered, as he pulled away, "What time is it?"

            "Midmorning," came the answer.  She did not respond for a moment, for she was comfortable, and relishing it, when a thought occurred to her.

            "Did you not have a council meeting this morning?" she asked, "I heard your father speak of it last night."

            "It is of little importance," Denethor answered, stroking her sleep-tossed hair from her forehead to where it lay loose on the pillow, "I did not wish you to wake up alone. Not this morning."  Finduilas was so touched by this that she leaned up and kissed him again, a longer kiss, to show just how much the small gesture was welcomed and appreciated.

            "Thank you," she said softly after they pulled apart.

            "The pleasure is mine, beloved," he answered, and then he frowned, "I just wish that all mornings could be like this."

            "I know better than to expect that, Denethor," Finduilas told him "And I do not love you less because I cannot.  I will simply cherish the mornings we can have this ever so much more because they will not come every day."

            "I don't know what I did to deserve you," Denethor remarked.  Finduilas met Denethor's eyes.

            "Do not say things such as that," Finduilas admonished softly, "I deem you worthy of my heart.  Is that not enough?"

            "It is more than I could ever wish for," he answered, "I love you, Finduilas."

            "I love you too," she answered.

  


* * *

[*]    The piece of jewelry I'm modeling hers off of is the second one down if you're interested in what I'm trying to make visualized here. It's not an easy thing to describe.

Welcome to story II in this story arc.  I'm going to post all following stories (and there are seven of them planned) in this series under the title "The Lord and the Lady" so keep your eyes open here for new bits, if you like what you have read so far.  Thanks for reading!  Please review if you get the chance!   -Nat


	3. An Autumn of Joy

**Author's Note:  I am so, so sorry for the wait!  I had one heck of a case of writer's block, plus classwork and no time to force myself through the incredible creative rut I found myself in.  But here it is.  Thank you SO much to Fayth for giving me the idea that got me through the block and allowed me to finish this!  Please read and review if you have the time!  --Nat**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own them, still have nothing but bills and homework, both of which you're welcome to if you really want them.**

****

**_An Autumn of Joy_**

**_By_**

**_Stargazer Nataku_**

****

            Denethor quashed a yawn as he walked the halls of Minas Tirith.  It was already late, for he had been in councils all day.  Lords from many parts of Gondor had assembled, and it was time-consuming to work through all they had to discuss.  He hoped that Finduilas was not angry, for this was already the seventh day he had left before dawn only to return late into the night, when most of the city already slept.

            He opened the door to their chambers slowly, for he expected his wife to already have retired. Yet he was surprised to find the fire roaring and the candles still lit.  Finduilas herself was asleep, curled up in her armchair before the fire with a book of old tales that he had given her on their first anniversary lying open in her lap.  

            Denethor walked soundlessly over and knelt before her, regarding her face, relaxed in sleep.  It was at these moments he found her the most beautiful, for she was completely unguarded and her face was clear of any emotion save peace.  His weariness faded as happiness welled up in his heart as it always did when he looked upon her.  Slowly, he moved forward and up, closing his eyes as he gently kissed her sleep-smoothed brow.  When he pulled back and opened his eyes, Finduilas' green eyes were open and smiling sleepily back at him.  She laughed softly, as she took his hand in her own, and spoke.  "I was going to wait up for you," she said, smiling.

            "You did not have to."

            "I know," she answered as she closed the book on her lap and leaned forward.  "I missed you," she whispered the instant before her lips met his.  Denethor lost himself in her arms and, as it always was when she kissed him; in every part of his being he felt how much he loved her and how joyful he was to have her to return to every night, when the work of the day was over and only a memory until the next morning.

            "I missed you too," he told her as they pulled apart.  She smiled and reached out to take his other hand.

            "You are weary," she said, "Come.  I had Isëlmra bring some dinner for you.  You can eat, and then take some rest.  Its late, and we both ought to sleep."

            "You spoil me," Denethor said, rising to her feet and drawing her with him.  Together, hand and hand, they walked over to the table where a simple meal of bread and cheese was waiting.  They sat and he glanced at the table, "There is only one plate.  Will you not join me?"

            "No, thank you," she answered, "I am not hungry."  Denethor buttered a piece of bread and regarded her in the firelight, noticing that she seemed paler and thinner than usual.

            "Are you well, Finduilas?" he asked her in concern.  She returned his concerned look with a reassuring smile.

            "I am fine," she answered, "I have just been tired lately, that is all."  Denethor regarded her critically.

            "You seem thinner."

            "Please do not worry over me," Finduilas insisted, "You have enough cares already, beloved.  I am all right."  He watched her rise and walk around the small table.  He opened his arms and she settled into his lap, leaning her head against his shoulder.  Denethor wrapped his arms around her and for a long moment, they sat silently, simply enjoying each other's company.  "I love you Denethor," Finduilas whispered after some time, and she pulled away slightly.  "Does the council meet again tomorrow?"  She made no mention of the many days they had already taken in council with each other.

            "Yes," he answered, "It will be several days yet before we are able to finish.  There is much to discuss."

            "So it seems," Finduilas answered, and she smiled and carefully brushed her hand through his shoulder length hair, tucking it gently back behind one of his ears.  "Would it not be best for you to get some sleep then?"

            "Yes," he answered, "And you ought to as well.  You look as tired as I."  She smiled, and kissed him, and they both rose to prepare for bed.

            Three nights later, he arrived in their chambers just after sunset and shut the door quietly behind him, hoping to surprise his wife with his early arrival.  Instead, he found an empty room, and the door to the balcony standing open.  He heard voices from outside, even though it was mid-winter and the night was cold.

            "I have already told you, my lady." he heard Isëlmra's voice say, "And the healer confirmed it, as best he can."  At the mention of a healer, Denethor's heart froze in his chest.  However, the next words, in his wife's voice, filled him with a fear that was beyond anything he had ever felt before.

            "I am frightened," he heard his wife's voice answer.

            "I know, my dear.  But you should not fear.  Now, can I get you something to eat?"

            "No, thank you," Finduilas answered, "The smell of food alone is enough to make me ill."

            "You must eat, Finduilas," her former nurse said, in a tone that would be used to speak to a wayward child, "I'll get you some tea, and maybe a few crackers."  She then added in a softer voice, and Denethor could imagine her patting his wife on the shoulder, "Don't worry dear, all will be well."

            Denethor remained standing in the doorway, even as Isëlmra bustled through the doorway and caught sight of him.  "Oh! Lord Denethor! The Lady is on the balcony."  She bowed quickly and, with a worried glance towards him, quickly disappeared.  It was only a moment later that Finduilas appeared, wrapped in the deep blue cloak her mother had made.  She caught his gaze with a smile, and he found himself unable to react.  He could not speak, for fear still clutched his heart, and she came over to him with a smile and kissed him, but he felt as though he were frozen and could not respond.

            "Denethor?" she asked, pulling away and looking up into his face with concern in her green eyes, "What is the matter, beloved?"  He forced himself to speak.

            "I could ask you the same," he said.  The smile on her face faded.  "Why did you not tell me you have been ill?"

            "I did not wish to worry you," she said softly, looking away from him.

            "What is wrong, Finduilas?"  He reached out to her, suddenly feeling the need to hold her, and she melted into his arms.

            "Nothing is wrong," she answered, and he pulled away.

            "But she spoke of healers, and you said that you are frightened!"

            "I am frightened," she told him softly, and then looked up to meet his eyes.  "I am with child."

            That had not been the answer Denethor was expecting, and for a long moment, he just stared down at his wife, in such a state of surprise that he could say nothing, do nothing except grip her arms where he still held her.

            "With child…" he finally repeated.

            "Yes," she answered, and he could see she was searching his face for a reaction, any reaction to what she had said.  There was a flash of fear in her eyes, and that was what he needed, for it made the entire situation coalesce into a single emotion: joy.  He pulled her to him, holding her tightly as he sought to find the words to give voice to his happiness.  It was hard, though many considered him eloquent, and he finally gave up.  Instead, he leaned in and kissed her, trying to convey all the feelings that were swarming about within him within that one kiss.  When he pulled away, she began to laugh, and her eyes sparkled again, though she still looked tired and pale.  Denethor smiled, feeling as though his face would split apart.

            Finduilas embraced him again, and she was the one to break the silence.  "I was wrong to fear, when you are with me," she said softly, "I am so happy, Denethor."

            "Happy cannot even begin to describe this…" he said, stroking her hair tenderly as he smiled down at her, "Did they guess at how long…"

            "Late summer," she told him, "In August, or maybe early September."  He smiled.

            "That is near the day I was born," Denethor said proudly.

            "Indeed," his wife answered merrily, "We shall see how near."  Denethor hugged her again.

            "He will be perfect."

            Denethor returned to his quarters, seeking his wife, and found her sitting in her chair, her swollen feet resting on an ottoman, her hands resting on her growing stomach.  When he had walked in, her eyes had been closed, but they opened as he entered.  "Denethor," she said with a smile, as he walked over to kneel beside the chair.   "How fare you?" he asked her.

            "All right," she answered, "Slightly weary.  The baby is getting its exercise."  Denethor reached out and laid his hand on his wife's abdomen, feeling the baby kicking.  

            "He certainly is," Denethor commented, sharing a look of joy with his wife.

            "It could be a girl you know," Finduilas stated.

            "I do not think so," Denethor told his wife, conviction in his voice, "It will be a boy."  He leaned forward and kissed her gently.  "Would you like to go for a walk in the garden?"  Finduilas' eyes lit up, and Denethor felt both pleased and ashamed that a simple suggestion could create such joy in her face.  He was pleased that he could cause her to be so excited with such a simple suggestion of a walk with him, and ashamed he could not bring such joy to her face more often.  Yet he pushed these thoughts away and offered her his hands, helping her to her feet and holding to her until she had awkwardly gained her balance.  

            "Who's the oliphaunt now?" she asked jokingly.

            "You're beautiful," Denethor assured her, offering her his arm as they began to walk.  She was huge, and she was indeed awkward, but he had told the truth, for the thought that their child was getting closer to being born made all the difference.

            The garden, as Denethor had promised on their wedding night, was filled with rosebushes and the stone paths were kept swept clean.  They walked slowly around the garden twice, pausing often to smell the roses, and on the third circuit they sat down on the stone bench, for Finduilas tired easily.  They sat in silence and Denethor was content to do so, for he loved their silences as well as their conversations, and the day was beautiful.  It was warm, and the sun was shining brightly, making the white stone of the city gleam brightly.  From the city he loved, his gaze fell on his wife, and he noticed the firm set in her mouth and the distant look in her eyes that signaled she was deep in thought.  "What are you thinking?" he asked softly.

            "I was thinking of Dol Amroth," she admitted, "The days we spent in our garden there and of my family…my mother mostly.  I guess…I was wishing she could be here, with me, when our child is born."

            "Send for her," Denethor suggested.

            "I would not think of it," Finduilas answered instantly, "She has never been so far from home, and to have her come so far now?  No, it is absurd.  I can be strong, if you are near.  I must."  Denethor frowned but did not say anything further, for he knew from his wife's tone that she would not be swayed by any arguments.  Yet at the same time, Denethor suspected that in Dol Amroth, Eärwen was waiting for word of her only daughter, and possibly even desired to make the journey.  But Finduilas would not ask.  Denethor cast a glance at his wife and made up his mind.

            Denethor handed the messenger the letter Finduilas had written her family, and then, from his own pocket, withdrew a letter from himself.  "I also need you to deliver this, along with the lady's letter and those from my father," he told the young man, as he glanced around to be sure his wife was not near, "It is a request that the Lady Eärwen return to the city with you, to be with my wife when the child is born.  If she accepts, be sure that she is comfortable on her journey, and send word ahead of you upon your return so I can prepare to meet her."

            "Of course, my lord," the man answered.

            "And remember, my wife is to know nothing of this," Denethor ordered.  "Return as quickly as you may."

            "Yes, my lord," the man said and with a bow, disappeared.

            Denethor was working in his small study, reading some old manuscripts, when there was a knock on the door.  When bid, one of his pages entered and bowed.  "My lord, we have just received word that the ship has returned from the south.  My Lady's mother and brother have indeed come, and they will arrive in the city within an hour."

            "Good," Denethor answered, "Have the guest chambers prepared, and notify the kitchens.  And make sure my wife knows nothing of this."

            "Of course, my lord," the man said with another bow as he shut the door behind him.  Denethor rolled up the scroll he had been reading and straightened his study.  When this was finished, he went out and down to the stables, where he had his horse saddled.  His thoughts went to Finduilas, who knew nothing of this, and hoped she would not be angry.  She was a stubborn woman in some ways.  Well, Denethor decided, she could be as angry as she wanted, for it was too late, now they were here.

            He mounted, and with a few guards of the Citadel rode down through the city to meet them.  He did not have long to wait, for soon Eärwen and Imrahil came into view, riding among a group of guards.  Eärwen was very pale, and she rode close beside her son, looking straight ahead.  She radiated nervousness from her straight posture to the way her thin hands gripped the reins.  

            Beside her, Imrahil rode easily, calmly, and Denethor decided that the young man had left childhood behind.  He rode with a confident, noble air, yet when he saw Denethor he smiled, and the youth Denethor had first known was once again before him.  

            Then they were before him and Denethor smiled. "Greetings, brother!" Imrahil said cheerfully, and he reached out and clasped Denethor's hand in a gesture of friendship.

            "Welcome," Denethor answered, and turned to Eärwen.  He felt sorry for his wife's mother; it was clear that the trip had been trying for her.  "It is good to see you once again, my lady.  I thank you for journeying all this way."

            "The pleasure is mine," she answered, and managed a smile, "How fares my daughter?"

            "She is well," Denethor told her as he turned his horse and started up the city street, "She is very tired now, but the sickness is gone."

            "And in spirit?"

            "She is happy," Denethor answered, "But afraid also, though she does not say it aloud."

            "It is always so with the first child," Eärwen said, "Does she know we are here?"  
            "Nay.  I wished to surprise her," Denethor answered, "She is too considerate and would never have asked you to come herself."

            "I had hoped she would ask," the older woman admitted, "When we received no word that she wished me, I thought I should have to wait for the news to come she had delivered.  But I am glad I did not have to.  I worry for her."

            "As do I," Denethor agreed, "But all will be well.  She will be glad to see you, even though she will be angry at me for meddling."  

            "Do they say how soon the baby will be born?"

            "You have come just in time," Denethor told her, "They say it shall be born at any time."  Eärwen smiled broadly, as if she were already seeing herself holding her first grandchild.  They were silent then, until they rode into the courtyard of the Citadel.  Denethor dismounted and, as Imrahil held the bridle of his mother's horse, Denethor offered his hand to her.  She took it and gracefully dismounted, as several pages came over and took the reins of their horses. One came to Denethor, and bowed before he spoke.  "Isëlmra told me the lady is in your chambers, my lord, if you wish to find her."

            "Thank you," he answered, and turned to his in-laws.  "Shall we go straight there?"

            "Yes," Eärwen agreed instantly.  Denethor smothered a smile and nodded.

            "This way."

            They made their way through the Citadel until they reached the quarters he and Finduilas shared.  He motioned for Lady Eärwen and Imrahil to step back a moment, and he opened the door and stepped in, not closing it behind him.  Finduilas was seated in her chair, sewing, concentrating hard on the small shirt she was making.  She heard the door open and, startled, looked up to see him.  "Denethor!" she said with a smile, "What a surprise!  It is the middle of the day!"

            "Well," he said, "The ship has just come from Dol Amroth, and I though you would wish to know that your father sent a few presents for you and the baby."

            "He did?  That is just like Father…I'll come directly," she said, and made a motion to push herself up.

            "Do not trouble yourself," Denethor said quickly, a twinkle in his eye as he anticipated her surprise, "I brought them here to you."

            "You did?" She looked at him for a moment, and then spoke, suspicion in her voice.   "Denethor, what are you hiding?"  He laughed, took two steps back to the door, and flung it wide open.  

            "This," he answered as Eärwen and Imrahil suddenly came into view.  

            Denethor watched as Finduilas' mouth dropped open in surprise, as she looked from her mother to her brother and back again.  He laughed at her speechlessness, and the laugh was what she needed.  He expected that if she had been able, she would have jumped to her feet and raced to her mother; however, as pregnant as she was, she could not stand easily and he had to help her to her feet so she could embrace her mother.  When she was finally able to speak, her voice came out breathless, tears in her eyes, "Oh, mother," she said, clinging to the older woman, "I am glad to see you!"  She pulled away and looked at her mother's face in amazement, as if reminding herself of every line and feature on her mother's face.

            "But not me?" Imrahil asked, pretending to be hurt.  Finduilas pulled away from her mother and threw her arms around her brother.

            "Of course you!" she said, "Don't be ridiculous, Imrahil!"  

            "You've changed," Imrahil said sternly, "I knew that living in Minas Tirith would make you fat, dear sister, but I can barely get my arms around you!"

            "Oh very funny," Finduilas answered, and finally turned to Denethor, who had stepped back a few paces from the reunion.  "And you, husband!" she said, and Denethor said a quick prayer that she was not angry.  "You did this!"

            "Yes," Denethor answered slowly.

            "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded.  Denethor caught a quick glance from Imrahil, and knew the young man was enjoying the spectacle before him, probably knowing from personal experience what it was like to be in the position Denethor was in.

            "I wished to surprise you," Denethor answered as calmly as he could.  _Please do not let her be angry…_ he thought, sending it vehemently to whoever may be listening.

            "Well you have!" she answered, and suddenly her frown turned to a smile, and the light shone in her tear-filled eyes.  "Doing what you think is best, as usual."  She shook her head, and the smile on her face and in her eyes was enough to thank him.

            "I brought a letter from your father, dear," Eärwen said to her daughter after the moment had ended, and drew it from her pocket.  Finduilas took it, opened it, and read it.  It had only been a minute when she laughed and turned to her husband, and handed him the note.

_My dearest daughter,_

_            Though I could not come to you, I think of you always, and miss you as much as the day you left us.  I am glad you have found your happiness there, as is obvious from the letters you have sent to us.  _

_            You are about to enter the happiest time in your life, my Finduilas, if my life can be used as any indication, yet it is a big change.  I wish you and your child health and happiness, and I send you your mother for your comfort, and Imrahil for Denethor's.  Make use of both, for I am sure you shall need them.  Valar bless you, dearest daughter!_

_-Father_

            "You had best do your duty!" he heard Finduilas saying to her brother, and he handed back the letter with a smile.

            "I am honor bound to it," Imrahil answered seriously, though his eyes were sparkling.  Finduilas laughed.  Denethor smiled, and shook his head at both, though his eyes strayed most often to Finduilas' face, and the way her eyes were shining.

            Denethor awoke and opened his eyes.  It was pitch black in their room, for there was no moon and, the night being uncharacteristically warm, they had allowed the fire to die.  Since he never awoke at night, Denethor was instantly curious as to why he had now.  Beside him, his wife's breathing was slow and even, and there was nothing that should have signaled him to wakefulness.

            He turned over, closing his eyes again, and had almost slipped back into sleep when he heard Finduilas' breath hitch in a small gasp.  He sat straight up in bed, reaching out for his wife's shoulder in the dark.

            "Finduilas?" he asked in a whisper, mentally cursing the darkness as he attempted to find her.  He heard her shift, and when she spoke, he used her voice to locate her.

            "I am awake," she answered.

            "Are you well?" he asked, his voice betraying his concern.  When she answered, her voice was calm but he detected a note of hidden fear.

            "I think you had best send for my mother," she told him, as her voice hitched again, "I think it is time."  Denethor squeezed her shoulder where he held it and jumped from the bed, attempting to make his way over to the wardrobe to find his robe.  

            With a muffled curse of irritation, he tripped over a chair and proceeded to fall forward, catching himself only just in time on the table.  "Are you all right?" came his wife's worried voice from the darkness.

            "Fine, fine," he answered, straightening himself and ignoring the throbbing in his shins.  He corrected his course, and a moment later, found the wardrobe.  After only a moment of fumbling, he found the knob and reached in to where he knew his robe was hanging.  Annoyed he could not move more quickly, he threw the robe on and made his way slowly in the pitch blackness to the door.  

            How he managed to find the handle, Denethor would never be sure, but he managed to get into the torch lit hallway and from there was able to hurry to get everything readied, even as his heart pounded nervously in his chest.

            Above all else, Denethor detested waiting.  He had tried working to make the time pass more quickly, but his worry and excitement had made that impossible.  So instead, he had retreated to the corridor near where Finduilas lay, sometimes seated on the stone bench there, sometimes pacing when he could no longer stand being motionless.  The day was wearing away, and the sun was nearly to the horizon.  

            Imrahil had been sitting on the bench for the better part of the afternoon, watching as Denethor paced or sat, never motionless.  He was watching him now, pacing back and forth in the hallway.  "She will be all right," he said.  Denethor stopped and looked over at the young man.  Imrahil met his gaze calmly.

            "And you know," Imrahil added, "Pacing will not make time pass more quickly."

            "I know," Denethor answered, and forced himself to sit by Imrahil on the bench.  They sat motionless for a long moment before Denethor sighed, got up, and resumed pacing.  When he caught the younger man's questioning look, he spoke.  "It may not make the time pass more quickly, but it relieves me," he said, in a voice that dared the other man to protest.  Imrahil raised his hands in a gesture that Denethor interpreted as acquiescence, and Denethor felt pleased, continuing to pace.

            He could feel Imrahil watching him closely, though it was several minutes before the younger man spoke again.  "You know, the winter when my sister was seventeen," he began, "She fell very ill, so ill that no one thought she would recover.  Yet throughout the whole time she was in bed, she claimed there was absolutely nothing the matter with her, and kept insisting that there was absolutely no reason to fuss."  Imrahil laughed.  "If you had seen her in those days…Mother and Isëlmra were holding her in bed and insisting that there was a reason that she remain there, while she was trying her hardest to leave it."  Denethor paused and looked at his brother in law, who continued speaking after a short pause, "I remember those days very well, though I was only eight, for Mother and Father scarcely spoke, save in whispers, and looked grave as they never do.

            "I remember they would not let me see her, after she grew too ill to protest, but I went anyway one night, after all were asleep, and the nurse had left her for a moment.  I was frightened, for she was very pale, and she did not move but lay as though she were dead.  But I never doubted that she would get well.  Call it childish faith if you wish, but I knew that she was strong, and I knew that, as she had insisted before she grew too ill to speak, she would get better, that there was no reason to worry.

            "She was right.  When I went to her after I was once again allowed to see her, I told her how worried I had been and she laughed and said 'Brother, you need not fear.  I am fine.  Something this trivial would not take me."  Imrahil paused.  "She is indeed a stubborn woman, and was not about to let anything such as that illness to defeat her.  It will be the same way this time."  He paused and then he smiled broadly.  "But I never will forget how insistent she was…she certainly fought Mother and Isëlmra with everything she had, until she was too exhausted to fight any more.  Then she would say, with as much dignity as she could muster in her fevered voice, 'I am weary.  I think I shall rest now,' as if she had not spent the better part of an hour fighting to get out of bed!"  Imrahil chuckled, and Denethor found himself laughing as well, for it seemed so much like his wife that he could not help it.  He went to sit down beside Imrahil.

            "I find it amusing that she was insisting she get out of bed," Denethor said, with a chuckle, "Considering the time it takes for her to awake in the morning!"  Imrahil laughed.

            "She has always been like that!   Why, when I was a child, I used to sneak into her room in the morning and do all sorts of things to try to wake her up, and none ever worked.  One morning, when I was finally fed up with waiting for her to awake, I took a small pitcher of cold water and poured it over her as she slept.  She still would not awake quickly!"  Both men laughed long over this.

            "I see that Imrahil is doing his duty faithfully," a voice interrupted, and suddenly Denethor was all seriousness, jumping to his feet to greet his mother in law, who was smiling broadly.  

            "Is it…" he asked, his voice trailing off.

            "It is ended," Eärwen told him, her smile spreading, "You have a son, and both Finduilas and the child are well."

            "A son," Denethor stated, a smile spreading across his own face, "May I go in now?"

            "Indeed you may," Eärwen said with a smile, "If you would like I shall send word to your father."

            "Thank you," he said with a nod, as he rose to his feet, and turned to Imrahil with a smile, meeting the younger man's eyes.  His brother in law smiled back and clasped his hand, "Congratulations."

            "Would you like to join me?" Denethor asked, and for a moment the younger man looked as though he would accept, but then he smiled and shook his head.  

            "I will wait a moment," Imrahil decided. 

            "All right," Denethor acquiesced, and he turned and went down the hall.  When he reached the door, he paused, his hand on the handle for a brief moment as he allowed his excitement and, though he would never admit it to anyone else, his apprehension to rise within him.  He pondered that nervousness momentarily, for it was uncharacteristic of him to feel that way and, as he always did, he felt the need to think it through.  It all came down to the newness of the situation; he had certainly never held a child of any sort, much less his own son.  _My son… Denethor thought, and the nervousness was replaced with a swell of pride as he abandoned his thoughts and opened the door._

            Finduilas was in bed, the afternoon sun streaming into the room and across the bed where she lay, a small bundle in her arms.  She turned to meet his eyes and she smiled at him, and beckoned for him to come closer.  Denethor crossed the room and perched himself on the edge of the bed.  Her smile did not fade as he leaned over and she carefully pulled the blanket back, and he looked upon his son for the first time.

            Denethor was amazed at how small he was, how delicate he looked as he slept.  He reached out and gently touched the baby's forehead, brushing back the soft wisps of hair there, and nearly forgot everything else.  "Do you want to hold him?" his wife asked softly, and Denethor met her eyes and forced himself to refrain from drawing her to him.  Instead he nodded, and reached out as his wife carefully laid the baby in his arms.

            "He's beautiful," Denethor whispered, moving closer to his wife on the bed.  She leaned up next to him, resting her head on his shoulder as she looked down at their son.

            "Yes, he is," she agreed, "Our son."  Denethor liked the way that sounded.  He liked the look she wore on her face as she looked at the baby.  And he knew, for the second time in his life, a burning love for another, this time in the form of the baby that was now asleep in his arms.          

            "He still needs a name, Denethor," Finduilas whispered, smiling up at her husband, "What shall it be, for whatever you choose shall please me."  Denethor stared at her, speechless, surprised by the great gift she gave to him.  "Please, beloved," she said, "I wish you to."  Denethor stared down at the little baby, sound asleep in his arms.  His son.  Almost without thought, a name suddenly entered his mind, and he spoke it softly. 

            "Boromir."  Finduilas smiled, and then she too repeated it. 

            "I think it is perfect, beloved," she told him, "Boromir he shall be."  She reached out and smoothed the blanket even as their son stirred and there was a soft knock on the door.  Isëlmra, who had been straightening the chamber, scurried over to the door at a nod from her mistress and opened it a crack, peering out into the hall before opening it with a smile.  

            Imrahil and Ecthelion entered the room together and made their way quietly over to the bed to the couple.  The Steward leaned over and regarded his grandson with eyes that appeared to be seeing another birth, half a century earlier.  He met his son's eyes with a question in them, and Denethor nodded, carefully transferring the baby to his father.

            Denethor watched as his father's stern face melted into a smile as the elderly Steward looked down into the sleeping infant's face as tears formed in his faded grey eyes.  Denethor reached out and sought his wife's hand where it lay, and their fingers entwined as they watched Ecthelion hold their son.  For a moment no one spoke, until Ecthelion raised his eyes from the baby in his arms and met first his son's and then his daughter in law's eyes.  As he spoke his voice caught in his throat.  "He is beautiful.  Have you chosen a name?"  

            "Denethor has," Finduilas answered, "It is Boromir."  Ecthelion smiled and turned back to the baby in his arms.

            "Boromir," he repeated, and beamed down at the child for a long moment more before he moved to give the baby back to Denethor; however, as Denethor reached out to grab the baby, Imrahil cleared his throat and Finduilas laughed.  

            "Husband, dear," she said, "I do believe my brother wishes a turn."  Ecthelion stopped mid-movement and turned to give the baby to the young man, who took him carefully just as the baby stirred and opened his eyes, one balled fist swinging wildly to strike Imrahil's arm.  Imrahil laughed quietly, merriment sparkling in his eyes, and told the smiling parents and grandfather: "I think you have a little warrior here," he said as he took one hand and grasped the small hand that had hit him, "Though I fear it will be some time before he'll have any strength to back that spirit up.  When that time comes," he whispered to his nephew, "I'll be happy to accept your challenge."

            "And I'm sure he will be able to defeat you soundly, Imrahil," the proud mother promised, as she was interrupted by a yawn.  Denethor glanced down at her, and then rose from the bed, taking the baby from Imrahil's arms, and both his father and brother in law took it as the sign that it was, leaving the room with one last whispered congratulations.  Isëlmra came over as well, taking Boromir from his father and laying him in his cradle.  After a few words to her lady, she quietly slipped through a different door into a small room to the side where she was to sleep until Finduilas was stronger.

            Denethor helped Finduilas lie down and then pulled her into his arms as she lay beside him.  "Thank you," he whispered to her as he kissed her forehead where it lay on his shoulder, "I never imagined it was possible to be so happy.  I cannot imagine how life could be any more perfect than it is."

            "It is indeed perfect," Finduilas whispered.  "I love you, Denethor."

            "I love you also, dearest Finduilas," he answered, pressing another kiss to her forehead before pulling away to look down at her.  Her eyes had already fallen shut, and he recognized that she was asleep.  With a chuckle, Denethor himself lay back down and closed his eyes, allowing a contented sleep to wash over him as well.


	4. A Spring of Trials

**_A Spring of Trials_**

**_By_**

**_Stargazer Nataku_**

            "Mama?"  Finduilas paused in her sewing and looked down to where five-year-old Boromir was lying flat on his stomach on the rug before the fire, playing with the toy army his uncle had sent for his birthday the autumn before.  It was a cold spring day; rain was pouring down in sheets so Finduilas could not even see the garden below her windows.  

            "What is it, Boromir?" she asked kindly, as her son pushed himself up and came over to her, leaving his toys abandoned on the floor.

            "When can we go outside?"

            "When the rain stops, dear heart."

            "When will the rain stop?"

            "No one can tell.  We just have to wait and be patient.  It cannot rain forever."

            "Kind of like we have to wait for the baby?"  Finduilas smiled and her hand sought the bulge of her stomach.

            "Just like that, although I think the rain shall stop sooner than the baby shall come."

            "I hope so.  Waiting for both is hard."  Boromir sighed, as though waiting was a tragedy of the worst sort, and then sat down on the floor again.  He picked up one of the carved knights and looked at it for a moment before putting it down again.

            "Mama, are you sure we can't go outside?"

            "Quite sure," Finduilas answered.  "Do you want me to tell you a story?"

            "Yes!  Story!"  He jumped to his feet and Finduilas laid aside her sewing and moved over, allowing her son to snuggle into the chair next to her.  She bent down when he had settled and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, stroking his black hair lovingly as she slipped her arm around him, leaving the other pressed on her swelling abdomen where their second child was just weeks away from being born.  

            "Which story would you like?"

            "Turin!"

            "Turin?  All right," Finduilas agreed as she smothered a smile, trying to remember a time when he had asked for a different story.  She could not remember.  "Turin lived long ago, in the First Age of this world, when the power and might of the Elves was yet strong, as was the power of the Dark Lord Morgoth."

            "Was Morgoth as bad as Sauron?" Boromir asked.

            "Worse," his mother answered, "Sauron was but a servant of Morgoth in the early days."

            "So if they could defeat Morgoth why can't anyone defeat Sauron?"

            "Because the Valar aided Middle-Earth, and it was their power that brought about Morgoth's downfall.  Neither Elves nor Dwarves nor Men could do it alone."

            "I'm going to defeat Sauron one day."

            "You are?" his mother asked, keeping the tone of her voice serious, although she was amused by her small son.

            "Mmmm hm," Boromir answered, "Isildur did it, why can't I?  I just gotta learn how to use a sword first.  When can I start doing that, Mama?"

            "When you're older, dearest."  

Boromir's face turned to a pout, and Finduilas was just opening her mouth to continue when the door opened.  She turned her head to look behind her and saw Denethor, a frown spreading over his features.  

            "Papa!" Boromir cried, wriggling out of the seat beside his mother and running to his father.  Finduilas watched the frown fade into a smile as he swung Boromir up into his arms, but the lines of irritation and tension remained around his eyes.  Denethor came to her, holding their son as the child spoke at a mile a minute about the rain and the toy soldiers and how he was going to defeat Sauron one day.

            "Indeed, you will," Denethor told Boromir as they came up beside her chair and Denethor bent down to kiss his wife.

            "Gross!" Boromir declared, and squirmed until his father put him down. He raced back over to where the knights were laying strewn about before the fire and threw himself into playing with them.  

            "What's the matter, Denethor?" Finduilas asked low, under her breath.

            "I need your aid."

            "You always have it."  Denethor smiled and squeezed her hand.  

            "Gandalf the Grey is due to arrive in the city."  Finduilas almost laughed, though she knew it wasn't a laughing matter.  The dislike her husband bore for the wizard was unmatched, and Finduilas did not understand it.  "My Father is not well, as you know, and he cannot be troubled, and I…"

            "You do not like him," Finduilas said gently.

            "No, I do not," Denethor answered her, "Even if Lord Húrin were not here I would not desire to give my time to him."

            "I understand," Finduilas answered.  "It is all right, Denethor.  You need not like everyone."  She reached out her hands and he helped her to her feet.  "I am a daughter of Dol Amroth; I have been doing this since I was a child."

            "I know," he kissed her forehead again, "Thank you.  I must return to Húrin."

            "All right.  If you could send someone for Isëlmra, I would appreciate it."  

            "Of course," Denethor answered.  Finduilas squeezed her husband's hand and he turned and quickly left, undoubtedly heading back towards the council chambers where he and Húrin had been speaking.  Finduilas turned, as Boromir looked up at her.  

            "Are we going outside?"  

Finduilas laughed.  "No, dear heart, its still raining.  But I need to go downstairs and meet a guest.  You need to stay with Isëlmra for awhile."

            "Come with!"

            "No, Boromir, not today."

            "Yes!  Come with!"

            "No.  Mother has to meet the guest, and you will get bored, Boromir."  Finduilas straightened her dress and hair.  "But you can see our guest later, if you would like."

            "What about the story?"

            "I'll finish it later, if you're a good boy for Isëlmra.  I promise."

            "Okay," he said with a frown.  She smiled and kissed her son as her former nurse entered the room.  

            "Here I am, m'lady," she said with a smile, as she came over to mother and son.

            "Thank you, Isëlmra," Finduilas said, smiling at the older woman.

            "Always my pleasure," she answered.

            "Be good, Boromir," Finduilas added as she left the room.

            Finduilas had only waited a few minutes when the wizard entered, flanked by two guards of the Citadel who bowed to her and took positions beside the door.  Gandalf smiled at her, his eyes friendly underneath his dripping hat.

            "I welcome you to Gondor, my lord," Finduilas said, and dipped into a slight bow, "on behalf of the Steward and my family."  

            "Thank you for your kind welcome, my lady," he said, "I am glad to be here.  This rain is incessant."

            "Indeed it is," she said, "Bryn?"  A young serving woman appeared at her lady's side.  "Please take Master Gandalf to the guest chambers and find him a dry set of clothes."

            "M'lady," the young woman said, with a curtsey to her mistress and to Gandalf.  

            "Once you are more comfortable, then we shall speak," she told Gandalf with a smile.

            "I thank you for your hospitality, my lady."  The wizard followed the young woman, and Finduilas quickly arranged for a light supper to be put out before the fire in the Great Hall, so that by the time Gandalf reappeared, it was already laid out and the room was warm and welcoming.

            Finduilas watched him cross the hall as she rose.  Despite what her husband thought of the wizard, she genuinely liked him.  Something within her responded to the wisdom that was present in his gaze, a wisdom that spoke of ancient days long past and a power that she, descended from the Elves though she was, could not begin to comprehend.  "Much better," the wizard commented as he sat at the table, "Thank you."

            "It is my pleasure," she answered.  The wizard regarded her sagely as she reached out to pour the tea herself, jarring the table as she leaned too far forward.  She chuckled.  "I forget sometimes," she said as way of explanation, as she adjusted her position and then continued pouring.

            "It will not be long before the child is born, correct?" Gandalf asked her.

            "Indeed not," she answered, "A few weeks at most.  I hope for a daughter, but I think Denethor wishes another son."  She smiled, "Although if I were to tell the whole truth, if it is born healthy I shall be content with either."

            "That is my hope as well, my lady."  There was a short silence as the both sipped their tea, appreciating the warmth of the fire and the hot liquid.  "I have heard the Steward is not well."

            "He has been ill," Finduilas told Gandalf, "And is indeed much aged since you last were here.  But they say the worst is over for now.  Still."  She paused a moment.  "We have been told that it shall not be long ere he passes."

            "I am sorry to hear that, my lady," Gandalf told her, and she looked up to him with a sad smile and saw the grief in his eyes.  How many men, she wondered, has he seen pass beyond this world?  Even so, it still remains a grief to him.

            "What shall come shall come," Finduilas said finally, "I do not wish it, but the time shall come one day for Ecthelion as it will for us all."

            "Indeed," Gandalf said, and they were silent for a long moment, which was interrupted by the sound of feet running across stone.  Finduilas looked up to see Boromir running across the room towards her, a great smile on his face.  He was soaked; water ran off his hair in steady streams, and his wet clothes stuck to him.  Finduilas pushed down her laughter at his comical appearance and forced her face to remain stern as her son came to a stop by her side.  She felt Gandalf watching them and recognized amusement in the wizard's eyes.

            "Boromir, what did I tell you to do?" she asked her son firmly.

            "Stay with Isëlmra," he answered.

            "And where is she?"  Boromir paused and looked around.

            "Well, she was with me for awhile…Really, Mama!  She was running behind me, I promise."  Finduilas had a sudden image of the elderly nurse chasing after her energetic son and had to fight her desire to smile.  

            "Boromir," she said sternly, "When I ask you to do something, I expect you to do it.  I expected you would stay with Isëlmra, and I have told you many times today that we could not go outside."

            "I wasn't?" Boromir suggested.

            "Son," she said, "You are dripping wet."  He looked down and would not meet her gaze.  "Listen, Boromir," she said, reaching out and taking one of his hands.  They were freezing to the touch, and a rush of worry came over her, "I'm very disappointed that you did not stay with your nurse, and that you went outside when I expressly told you we could not."  

            "I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered, and Finduilas knew that her son meant it.

            "When I ask you to do something, it's because I want what is best for you.  You could get hurt, or sick, and I do not want that.  Now."  She straightened her son's wet garments as best she could and pushed some of his dark hair out of his face where it was sticking.  "Boromir, this is Master Gandalf."  The little boy looked up at the wizard and then bowed; Finduilas felt a rush of pride that he had remembered the correct way to greet an elder.

            "Hello, Master Gandalf," he said.

            "Hello, my lad," was the response, and Finduilas smiled at him as she rose clumsily to her feet, and reached out to take her son's hand.  

            "Come, Boromir," she said, "You have to go get changed."  She took him to the door and addressed the guard there; she then addressed her son. "Be good, and go with him back to Isëlmra, all right?"

            "Yes, Mama," he answered, and followed the guard as they walked back towards the family's living quarters.

            Only when she was nearly back at the table and she knew Boromir was far away did she allow herself to laugh.  "Excuse me, my lord," she apologized, "The logic of children…"

            "Indeed," Gandalf answered, and his eyes were twinkling.  

            "He is the greatest gift I have ever been given," Finduilas admitted, "I wish he could stay this age forever.  Yet the day will come, as much as I do not wish it, when he'll belong to the world of men, and not to me.  He is already so eager for it.  He will only listen to stories of the old battles, and will watch the soldiers training for as long as it is permitted of him.  I do not think he would ever leave the training grounds if he had a choice."  She paused, "Denethor is proud of that desire.  I think he would let him have a practice sword of his own if I allowed it.  In the fall he probably will, whether I would have it or not."  She sighed.

            "The young are always eager to grow old," Gandalf said, "Among Elves and Men and Dwarves it is the same.  They do not realize what a precious gift youth is until it has been lost."

            "Perhaps it is good for him," Finduilas stated, "After all, much will be asked of him.  Though my husband does not like to worry me, I hear many things, and it would take a fool to not realize that the darkness is growing."  Finduilas shuddered.

            "You are right, my lady.  It is why I have come."  She looked at him sharply.  "There are orcs massing again to the East.  The blow may come within days on your Eastern borders."

            "This is grave news indeed," Finduilas said, her voice heavy with concern.

            "I must share this news with your husband as well, my lady, for I fear your defenses there will not hold under the battles that are coming."

            "He is currently occupied with Húrin of Lossarnach," Finduilas admitted, "Doing Valar knows what.  And the Steward himself, while better, is still too ill.  If you can excuse me, I shall send word to my husband that he is needed."

            "And Húrin as well," Gandalf said, "Part of the blow may fall to the south.  It is good he is here to hear the tale."

            "Of course," Finduilas said, and rose clumsily to her feet, "Excuse me."

            "Denethor, why must you go?"

            "I cannot shirk my duty to my people, Finduilas."  Finduilas stared at him, and felt the anguish rising in her heart.  He had often ridden away to war, but it had never been easy for his wife, but especially not now, when the birth of their second child was so near.  She knew arguing with him was hopeless, for he would go and lead his men into battle, but with the birth looming and his father still ill, Finduilas felt remarkably unprepared and shaken.

            "Even now, when your father is so ill?  Can he shoulder the burdens of ruling?"

            "I have faith that you can aid him with the running of the household, so he need not concern himself with anything save the most urgent matters."

            "And if the child comes and I can no longer do so?"

            "Then there are others who can take your place.  Finduilas, I must go."  She sighed and turned away from where he was dressing and her eyes fell upon his sword.  It lay upon their bed, glittering cold and silver against the brilliant red fabric.  A wash of defeat and exhaustion spread through her and she felt her shoulders slump and, as much as she despised it, felt tears in her eyes.

            There was a soft touch on her shoulders, gentle and loving, and Finduilas did not move as Denethor stroked her arms in silence, pressing his forehead to the back of her head.  "I am sorry," he finally said, and Finduilas felt his breath warm and damp against the back of his neck.  Finduilas reached up and placed her hand over his where it had paused on her arm, and stood there in silence before turning to meet his grey eyes.

            She regarded him a moment and reminded herself of everything she loved about him, and she forced aside all her worries and fears for herself and for him.  With a sigh that told her husband of her acquiescence to his will, she lowered her eyes to the floor so he would not see the tears in them.  "Finduilas."  His usually stern voice was gentle and kind, and his much younger wife felt her eyes drawn upward again.  His hand found the side of her face.  "You need not fear for me.  True, I am no longer young, but I am still able to wield a sword.  I will return to you.  I swear it."

            She forced herself to take a deep breath before speaking.  "I hold you to it."  

            He kissed her, and was gone.

            "When's Papa coming back?"

            "I do not know, Boromir."

            "Soon?"

            "I hope so."  She finished tucking in the covers around her young son and then sat on the side of his bed.  "Which story do you want, dearest?"

            "Can you sing?" he asked.  Finduilas smiled.

            "I would love to," she answered, and she picked one her mother had often sung to her as she lay in bed, ready to sleep.  It was calm, and slow; it spoke of the wind and the cry of the gulls and the lapping of the waves upon the shore.  She watched her son as she sang, as his eyelids grew heavier until his eyes slipped closed and she knew he had fallen asleep.  With a smile, she finished the verse, then gently reached out and brushed some hair away from his sleeping face.

            She quietly rose, picking up the candle as she went out into the corridor.  Her room was right across from Boromir's, and she stepped across the hall, nodding to the two young men on guard at the other end of the hall as she opened the door and slipped in.         

            Someone, most likely Isëlmra, had laid out Finduilas' nightgown, turned the bed back, and stoked up the fire so it was warm in the room, in spite of the spring chill.  She crossed to the bed and changed into the nightgown, leaving her dress lying across the back of a chair as she got into bed.  She lay down on her side, and tried not to think about how empty the bed felt without Denethor in it beside her.  It was not long before, even with her worry, she slipped into sleep…

            …and awoke a few hours later with an intense pain shooting through her abdomen.  It was so strong it took her breath away.  A sudden jolt of fear passed through her, for there was still a month before the baby was supposed to be born, and she had a horrible feeling that something was terribly wrong.  She tried to sit up, to get out of bed to go for help, but the pain prohibited even the slightest movement.  She pondered calling out, but as soon as she took a breath to try to do so, there was a stab of pain that left her shaking and unable to speak.

            Pressing her eyes closed, Finduilas tried to concentrate on something other than the pain in a hope of conquering it; but it did not work.  Taking deep breaths, she had decided to make another effort to call out when suddenly there was a knock on the door, and Isëlmra's familiar voice from the other side.  "My lady?"  _Come in_…Finduilas willed the other woman, and it was only a moment later when the door swung open and the nurse was revealed silhouetted from the light in the hallway.  Behind her, Finduilas caught a glimpse of Gandalf the Grey before there was another wave of intense pain and she lost herself to unconsciousness.

            Finduilas felt herself slowly coming to wakefulness, aware of the pain still wracking her suddenly thin body.  There was a sudden rush of dread and she forced herself to full consciousness.  She cast a glance about, and her gaze fell upon Isëlmra's face.  The old woman was seated by her side, was asleep in the chair as she watched over 'her girl'.  Finduilas swallowed and called the woman's name; instantly she was awake and leaning forward, a look of profound relief suddenly washing over every line in her wrinkled face.

            "Bless you, child, you're awake!"  

            "My baby?" Finduilas demanded.  The woman's face darkened slightly, and Finduilas' dread deepened.

            "A baby boy," the nurse said gently.

            "Is he all right?" 

            "He survived it, my girl, but he is very small.  The Warden says that he will live, small though he is, with the proper care, which of course he'll get.  You needn't fear about him, my lady.  You just concentrate on getting better yourself.  You gave us quite a scare!  I dread to think what would have happened if Master Gandalf hadn't awoken me, saying that he felt something was wrong!"  There were tears in the old nurse's eyes as she reached out to pat Finduilas' hand.  "But you're a strong lass, you are.  I never should have worried.  All the same, you'll not be able to get out of bed for some time.  It has already been three days, and I suspect it will be much longer."  Finduilas pressed her eyes closed, her heart skipping a beat as she realized just how close to death she had come.  Yet she forced those thoughts from her mind and when she spoke again her voice was firm.  "Does Boromir know?  Who has been taking care of him?"

            "He only knows that you are sick, and that his little brother is sick.  We did not feel the need to frighten him with how dire it was.  And one of the kitchen girls has been watching him when I have been here with you.  You need not worry about that either," Isëlmra told the young mother, "She's the oldest of seven, and has been caring for them since their mother died, so she knows how to care for children."

            "I trust that," Finduilas answered, feeling weariness pressing down upon her, "And what of the baby?"

            "The Warden himself and one of the women--I think her name is Ioreth--are taking care of him.  He is in good hands, my lady."

            "Has word been sent to Denethor?"

            "Not yet."

            "Now that we are both out of danger, send word to him that he has a son," Finduilas ordered.  

            "Of course."

            "Has any message come from him?"

            "Nay."

            "How long has it been since the last?"

            "Seven days, my lady."  There was a pause.  "You are weary.  Rest again, Finduilas, and do not fear."  Finduilas nodded, for against her will her eyes seemed to be falling closed, and she surrendered to sleep again.

            When she awoke again, the sun was streaming in through the windows and she felt more alert.  There was still pain, and an incredible feeling of weakness, but her mind was clear and she felt compelled to try to sit up.  She shifted in bed, and suddenly Isëlmra came into view.  "Let me help you dear," she said and in moments Finduilas was upright.  "We'll have to get you something to eat," the nurse added.

            "I want to see my sons," Finduilas told her.

            "Of course," the nurse said with a smile, "I'll send for Boromir, and have the baby brought as well.  Did you and Lord Denethor ever decide on a name for him?"

            "Nay," Finduilas answered with a frown, "But he will return soon."

            "So he will.  Well my lady, you just rest and I'll return in a few moments."  Finduilas lay back and shut her eyes as she waited.  It did not take long.  Moments later, she heard the door fly open and she turned her head to see Boromir running across the stone floor to her bed.

            "Mama!" he cried, and clambered up onto the bed.

            "Boromir."  She pulled her son to her and reveled in the feeling of his arms thrown around her neck, his head pressed against her shoulder.

            "They wouldn't let me see you," he said, and she heard tears in his voice, though he was pushing them away.  "I just wanted to see you, but they said you were sick and then I got scared and Isëlmra's nice, Mama, but she's not you at all."

            "I know, dear," she whispered to him, stroking his hair, "I know it's hard.  But I'm okay, and your brother is okay."  She smiled.  "It finally stopped raining, didn't it?"

            "Yes!  And Isëlmra let me go down and watch the soldiers training!  We stayed for hours!"  Finduilas smiled, knowing that her ruse to get her small son thinking about something else had worked as he continued to talk in a quick, excited voice about the swords and the play fights he had seen.  She just wished he could get excited for something else, besides simply swordplay and soldiers.  "When can I see the baby?" he suddenly asked, switching subjects.

            Finduilas smiled.  "Isëlmra was going to bring him," she told her elder son and it was indeed at that moment that the door swung open.  Finduilas turned, expecting to see the nurse, and was surprised by Denethor's entrance.  He was still wearing his mail, though his sword was gone, and he came to her, concern in every line of his face and every hurried step.  She cast him a glance of warning, telling him to save his worry, and with an added glance at Boromir, Denethor understood.

            "I came when I heard," he said, sitting himself down on the side of the bed, as a trembling hand reached out to touch her face.  "Are you well?"

            "I am fine," she assured him, "Our son is being brought."

            "But I'm right here!" Boromir suddenly insisted, and Finduilas and Denethor laughed in spite of the tension between them. 

            "The baby, Boromir," Finduilas said, ruffling her son's hair as she gave him a small squeeze.

            "Can I stay and see him?"

            "Of course, dear heart," Finduilas answered, "But then you need to go play.  Mother is weary."

            "Okay," Boromir agreed.  Finduilas smiled down at him, and then at her husband.  Denethor looked as though he needed reassurance, but Finduilas would not concern their son when it was now too late for concern.  She leaned over to her husband, and whispered to him, "Calm yourself, all is well."  She met his gaze firmly and he nodded and turned his attention to Boromir, as their son recounted all he had done since his father had left.

            A knock on the door interrupted Boromir just as he was telling his father about how the rain had stopped and the training grounds, and it opened quickly, revealing Isëlmra with the baby.  She walked over to the bed and handed him carefully to Denethor, who took him without hesitation.  Boromir stood up on the bed and put one hand on his father's shoulder as he leaned down and looked into the baby's face.  "He's small."

            "Very small," his mother said, feeling a smile passing over her face as she looked contentedly down at the baby.

            Denethor was silent for a long moment before he spoke.  "Have you named him, Finduilas?"

            "Nay," Finduilas answered, "I thought it a decision we could make together."  Denethor met her eyes as he carefully transferred the baby into her arms.  

            "It is your decision, my love," he said, as he pulled Boromir to his side, and the little boy clambered into his father's lap willingly.  She thought for a long moment, and then with a smile, pronounced her judgment.

            "Faramir," she said, and Denethor accepted the name with a nod.

            "Why'd you name him that Mama?" her older son interjected, taking his eyes from the baby to look at her.

            "Because, dear heart, it is a beautiful name."

            "But the first Faramir got himself killed and the line of Kings ended!"

            "Indeed," she said softly, "But he did what he thought was right.  It takes much courage to go against what you are ordered to do when you think another path is correct.  I want both you and your brother to have the strength to do that if ever you must."

            "But he didn't make the right decision."

            "No, he did not," Finduilas answered patiently, "That part of the story is to remind him, and you, to think very hard before you take any course of action, and to not allow your own desires to overcome the good of your people, whom you were both born to serve."

            "Oh."  

            Finduilas laughed. "It is not a burden, Boromir," she said, smiling at her young son.

            "I know.  I want to be big enough so I can."  He squirmed around in his father's lap to meet Denethor's eyes.  "I am going to defeat Sauron, after all."  Father smiled down at son.

            "Perhaps one day.  For now, it is nearly dinnertime.  Can you go with Isëlmra and get washed up?"

            "Can you eat with me tonight, Papa?"

            "Yes, of course he can," Finduilas inserted quickly as Denethor opened his mouth to say no.  

            "Good," Boromir said, and he crawled over to his mother on the large bed and kissed her.  "Bye, Mama.  I'll come back and see you tomorrow, I promise.  And then, can you tell me a story?"

            "Of course."  Her son smiled, and Finduilas returned it, as he jumped off the bed and went running for the door.  Finduilas handed Faramir to the nurse, who then followed Boromir, casting a reassuring smile over her shoulder at her mistress as she shut the door.  Finduilas' gaze then turned to her husband, who was sitting by the bed, his gaze cast down at the floor.  For a single moment, Finduilas caught emotions in his beloved face that chilled her; the despair and fear were clear within their usually strong grey depths.  Never before had her husband seemed so old, so weighted, so lost... When he finally shattered the silence with words, all the emotions she had seen in his face were present in his weary voice.  "I could have lost you, Finduilas..."  The anguish was clear in his voice.

            "But you did not, beloved.  I am still here," she tried to reassure him.  It did not work.  He remained seated, not looking at her, and she stifled a sigh.  "Come here, Denethor," she said softly.  He did not move.  "Denethor, come here."  He finally looked at her, and opened his mouth to protest.  "Come here," she repeated, her eyes making it clear that she would not take no for an answer.  He slowly rose to his feet, moving as though he was twice his age, and removed his mail and armor just as slowly before sitting on the side of the bed, his back to her.  She sighed and as much as it caused a shoot of pain to rip through her, she bit it back and reached out for him, pulling him back towards her.  He came, and she laid his head on her shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, stroking his hair much as she would have Boromir's if he were upset.

            He allowed her to hold him in silence for a moment, his eyes tightly closed.  "Please, beloved," Finduilas began as she continued to stroke his hair, "Do not despair.  I cannot bear to see you in such pain, especially over me."

            "I do not know what I would have done, if…"

            "You would have been strong, Denethor, if not for yourself then for our sons.  If that ever shall happen— may the Valar forbid it! —you would be all they had."  She paused for a moment.  "I shall be fine, my love.  It may be awhile before I am able to get out of bed, but I will be well soon enough.  I cannot say this was trivial, but I defeated it, and I am here.  I am not lost."

            "I should have been here with you.  I never should have left."  Finduilas understood then.  His despair was not only over the fact that she had been in danger, but that he had left her to face it alone.  

            "Dearest," Finduilas soothed him, "As you said, you cannot shirk your duty to your people.  What I said to Boromir rings true with you as well.  You were born to serve them, even as your son was.  It is the life we must lead, as those chosen to watch over the people of Gondor.  I have always known and understood this, as I know you have.  Please, Denethor…all is well.  I am well, and our son shall live.  We are blessed."  She looked at his face, saw that the wild emotions in his eyes had calmed, replaced with weariness.  "You yet have time before dinner," she said, "Rest, beloved husband, and I will guard your dreams."

            "I love you, Finduilas," he said, and the words rang truer and sweeter than they ever had before.

            "And I you, Denethor," she whispered, continuing to stroke his hair as his eyes fell shut.

            On the first day Finduilas was allowed out of bed, she asked Isëlmra to put a chair in the garden, which the woman did readily.  Padded with many pillows to support her still delicate frame, the chair felt heavenly after being indoors in bed for so many days.  Finduilas was holding Faramir, Mother and infant both carefully shaded from the warm spring sunshine, and enjoying the warmth of the day as she watched her older son playing among the early flowers.  Yet he did not play for long; quickly he caught her eyes and ran over to her.

            "Faramir's still really small."  Boromir stated, as he climbed up onto the chair beside his mother.  Finduilas smiled.

"Indeed he is, dearest," she answered, carefully freeing one arm from the support of Faramir to pull her older son to her side. He rested his head on her shoulder, eyes never leaving the baby. 

"Is he always going to be that small?"

"No, he won't," she replied, "He'll get bigger, just like you."

"But I'll always be bigger than him, right Mama?"

"Yes, always. But that gives you great responsibility for him, Boromir."

"Me?" he asked, and his eyes met hers.

"You are his older brother, and he will look to you. You have to help him and protect him so he can become a good boy just like you are. You must be his friend, and love him always." She smiled. "Can you do that for me, dearest heart?" Boromir nodded gravely.

"Promise?"

"Yes, Mama," Boromir answered, his childish voice serious.

"Do you want to hold him?"

"Can I?"

"Of course," she answered, and carefully took the soft bundle she held and transferred it to her son, showing him how to hold his brother so as not to hurt him or drop him.

"I promised," Boromir said softly to the sleeping infant, "I'm gonna look after you, Faramir. I'm your big brother, and it's my reponsbilty. And when you get old enough, and when I get old enough 'cause Mama says I'm not yet, I'll help you learn stuff, like how to use a sword just like Papa does. And then we can be just like all those heroes Mama reads to me about. I can tell you about them too."

Finduilas found herself chuckling softly, and she reached out and gently brushed some of Boromir's unruly hair from his face. He looked up and smiled at her. "I like him," Boromir proclaimed in an earnest whisper, "Though I can't wait until he's old enough so we can play."

"That day will come soon enough, Boromir," Finduilas told him.  Perhaps too soon for my taste, she decided, as Boromir carefully handed his baby brother back to her and climbed down and began to play again, fighting imaginary enemies around the garden.

            "It is good to see you out of bed, my lady," a voice told her, and Finduilas looked up from watching her infant son with a smile, her gaze falling upon Gandalf.

            "It is good to be out," she agreed, "Thank you, my lord.  I owe you a good deal."  The wizard nodded.

            "How fares the child?"  

            "Stronger with each day," Finduilas answered with a smile, "Here."  She held Faramir up, and with a pleased look the wizard took the baby into his arms.  At the transfer, Faramir opened his eyes and gazed solemnly up into the wizard's face.  Gandalf chuckled, and his voice was gentle and kind when he spoke to the child.  "Well met, Faramir son of Denethor."

            Finduilas watched the exchange, still smiling.  She turned a moment to look for Boromir and found him still playing, using a stick as a sword to attack unseen enemies, unmindful of the wizard's presence.  She gave a slight sigh, but it was a contented sigh.  "They are already so different," Finduilas said, looking up to where Faramir was clinging to one of Gandalf's fingers with his small hand as he cooed in delight, "As night and day.  I can tell even now."

            "They indeed shall be," Gandalf said, "But it shall make the bond between them that much stronger."

            "Indeed," Finduilas said, "Boromir is already so attentive of him.  He is always the first to his Faramir's side when he cries."  She smiled, "It reminds me of myself when Imrahil was yet a baby."  Gandalf smiled, and had opened his mouth to speak, when he was interrupted by a stern voice from behind.

            "Good morning."  Finduilas glanced around Gandalf, who also turned to see Denethor striding into the garden.  She sighed inwardly as her husband crossed the garden and, without pretense, reached out his arms and took his son from the wizard.  With a disapproving look, he handed the infant back to his wife before turning back to the wizard.  "I need to speak with my wife," he said in a tone that dared the wizard to challenge him.  

            "Very well," Gandalf said amicably, "My lady."  He gave a slight bow and turned and began to walk away.

            Denethor did not speak again until the wizard had disappeared and then he turned to his wife with a disapproving look.  Finduilas steeled herself for an argument, for after seven years of marriage, she recognized the look on Denethor's face.  "What was he doing?"

            "He merely wished to know how I fared," she answered firmly, "And how our son fares."

            "I do not wish to have that wizard holding my son, guest or no!"  Finduilas pushed away her irritation, and forced herself to speak calmly.

            "He would never harm our child, Denethor.  I understand you dislike him, but…"

            "There will be no buts, Finduilas!"

            "Yes, there shall be," Finduilas interrupted firmly, "Or have you already forgotten that it is because of 'that wizard' that your son and I yet live?  Why do you hate him so?"

            "I do not trust him, and neither should you!"

            "I shall keep my own counsel about who I trust.  Your father thinks very highly of him, and would trust him with his life.  Yet you refuse to.  Why?"  Denethor was silent, and Finduilas could see he was angry, but she continued anyway.  "It is because of Lord Thorongil, isn't it?"  The glare her husband gave her answered her question even when he did not give it aloud.  She sighed.  "Denethor, it is not wise to hold such a grudge.  The rumors were completely untrue that anything ever existed between us."

            "I know that," was Denethor's clipped answer, "I trust you completely in the matter, but I do not trust him.  He could have had designs to…" His voice trailed off.

            "Take me from you?  Not likely," Finduilas said, "He would never do so, just as you would never try to take another man's wife.  This jealousy of yours on my part is unfounded and completely worthless.  He is gone, and it is unlikely he shall ever return.  Gandalf means well; he came to warn us about the orcs massing in the east, did he not?"

            "Something our scouts would have notified us of before much more time had passed.  Undoubtedly he wished to prove himself useful; for what purpose I cannot tell.  I cannot trust he has the best interests of our people at heart, and as such I feel no need to like him, or to allow him near my sons."

            "You can believe that if you will," Finduilas acquiesced, "But I do not have to agree.  I will never be discourteous to any guest who comes into my house, whether my husband likes that guest or no."  She met Denethor's gaze firmly; she knew she could be as stubborn as her husband, and would not indeed concede to him in this.

            "You would do well to remember, my Lady," Denethor said, abandoning her name as he was wont to do when he grew angry, "That I am the head of this family and master of this house."

            "I thought that was yet your father's duty, my lord?" she asked, p. Putting a look of confusion on her face.  His mouth fell open for a moment, then he shut it firmly, and his look of displeasure deepened.  Part of her suddenly wished to relent, to back down and concede the point to Denethor, but she knew she was right and would not do so.  

            "I do not wish our sons to be around that man again, wife."  Denethor finally said, "You would do well to obey me."  With a final glance that conveyed to Finduilas how serious he was, he turned and left the garden.

            Finduilas sighed, shutting her eyes as she reflected on how much she hated arguing with Denethor.  It was useless, especially when he felt so strongly about something, and always left her feeling rather empty.

After a moment where she tried to get her emotions under control, consoleing herself with the fact that she was in the right and Denethor was not, there was a soft touch on her knee, and Finduilas opened her eyes to see Boromir looking up at her, concerned.  She smiled at him and moved over and patted the chair beside her.  Her son climbed up and leaned against her side.  "Why's Papa mad, Mama?"

            "He does not like Master Gandalf, dear, that's all," Finduilas answered.

            "Then why's Master Gandalf staying?"

            "Because your grandfather and I like him very much."

            "Oh."  Boromir paused for a long moment. "Papa's not mad at me, is he?"

            "No dear heart, not at all," Finduilas assured her son, "Do not trouble yourself with it; he will not stay angry long."  This at least, Finduilas reflected, was the truth.  He never held his anger against her; he was incapable of it, even though he could with others.  She shifted, ignoring the little spike of pain that ran through her, and tried to ignore how tired she was.  Her young son looked at her for a minute when he spoke there was worry in his tone.  

            "Do you want to go inside, Mama?  You look tired."

            "I think so," Finduilas answered, "Can you please go tell Isëlmra?"  Boromir nodded and climbed carefully down before turning to race from the garden.  Finduilas sighed as she looked down at Faramir sleeping in her arms and a slow smile spread across her face as her anger faded.  

Denethor, in his stubbornness, was such a foolish man sometimes.  It amazed her that he could be so warm and loving towards her and towards his sons, but so cold to nearly everyone else.  She smothered a smile, remembering an incident from years past shortly after they had married when a lord and his wife came to Minas Tirith for a short time.  The woman had spoken words that Finduilas would never forget.  _'Well, my lady, I do hope you can be happy here, and that your husband does pay some attention to you occasionally.  I don't generally hold to arranged marriages, especially when the ages are so different for the two being wed."_  Six years later, Finduilas could still feel the sting that had come with the woman's words, but also pride with the way she had answered them.  _"I suspect that would be difficult.  I am glad my parents had more sense than forcing me to marry where I did not will to."_   Finduilas chuckled, remembering the look of surprise and embarrassment on the woman's face.

            _Well_, Finduilas reflected, _as he cannot remain angry with me, so I cannot remain angry with him._  She laughed and gently kissed Faramir on the forehead.

            Two days later, Finduilas and Isëlmra were again in the garden enjoying the beautiful spring sunshine.  For the first time since Faramir's birth, Finduilas was working quietly on sewing a tunic for Boromir and Isëlmra was reading aloud to her as she worked.  As she had known it would, the argument with Denethor had slipped away, as there had been no incidents to renew it, and she was glad for it.

            She had just finished the tunic when there was the sound of slow, unhurried paces across the stone paths and she looked up to find Gandalf coming into the garden.  He came over to her and bowed, a smile on his worn face.  "Master Gandalf," she said with a smile.

            "My lady," he answered, "I have come to wish you well, my lady," he said, "I shall be leaving the city this morning."

            "I see," she answered, "I thank you for your visit.  I owe you a good deal more than I can ever repay."

"I am glad I could be of service," he answered with a grandfatherly smile that Finduilas returned.

"Please return to us as soon as you may be spared from your journeys.  You are ever welcome here."

            "I thank you," Gandalf answered, "May the Valar watch over you, Lady." 

            "And over you," she answered, with a sudden twinge of sadness as he turned and walked away.  For a sudden brief moment, Finduilas felt sure she would never see the wizard again even as she watched him disappear through the gateway out of the garden.  Then, dismissing the thought as utter foolishness, she carefully folded the tunic on her lap and leaned back to listen to Isëlmra read.


	5. As Time Goes By

**_As Time Goes By_**

**_By_**

**_Stargazer Nataku_**

****

            Finduilas stifled a yawn as she walked down the hallway towards the family quarters, carrying Faramir in her arms as he slept with his head against her shoulder.  Her four-year-old son had fallen asleep in the Great Hall, where they had been having a banquet to celebrate the eleventh anniversary of his parents' marriage.  The Steward's wife smiled as she pushed open the door to the room Faramir shared with his older brother, not by necessity, but by her sons' choice, and carried her sleeping son over to his bed.

            Changing him into his nightclothes while he slept was difficult, and Finduilas reflected on how big her young son had grown.  He had started so small, but had caught up quickly, though he was nowhere near as big as Boromir had been at his age.  She smiled down upon him as she finished putting on his nightclothes and carefully pulled the covers back so she could tuck him in.  As she did so, his sleepy grey eyes opened and looked up at her with a smile in them.  "Mother?" he whispered softly, "Was the dance over?"

            "No, my Faramir," Finduilas said softly back to him, "But you fell asleep."

            "Oh," he whispered back, "I'm awful tired."

            "Then sleep, dear heart."

            "Mother?"

            "Yes?"

            "Will you sing me a song, just a short one?  I know you have to go back to Father."

            "Of course," Finduilas whispered, for her small son was more important to her than all the nobles of Gondor.  

            "Sing the one your mother used to sing you, in Dol Amroth.  Was it very pretty there, Mother?"

            "It was, my Faramir," she answered.

            "I wish I could see it.  I think the sea would be wonderful."

            "It is," Finduilas said.  For a moment she indulged herself and allowed herself to remember the play of the light on the waves and the sound of the gulls crying.

            "Don't be sad, Mama," Faramir said, sitting up in bed and crawling to her.  He threw his small arms around her neck and Finduilas pushed away the memories and was once again amazed by the perception of her son.

            "I'm not sad exactly, Faramir," she said, "But I love the sea, and I miss it.  I have not seen it in eleven years."

            "That's a long time to be away from something you love."

            "Yes, it is, dearest heart."  He was quiet for a long minute.

            "You are happy here though, aren't you, Mama?  You're not going to decide you hate it and go home and leave me here, are you?"

            "Never," Finduilas said, "I am happy here, Faramir, and I could never go home and leave you.  I would be very unhappy if I did so, even if I did have the sea again."

            "Good," Faramir answered with a yawn, "Because I don't want you to go away _ever_.  I'd miss you too much."

            "I would miss you too, darling," Finduilas answered, laying him back down and tucking him in again as she began to sing, wishing she did not have to return to the Great Hall and to her guests.  Faramir was asleep before she had finished the second verse, but she allowed herself a third in order to watch him as he slept, a smile playing across her face in the moonlight.

            The next morning, Finduilas awoke early and gave herself the luxury of lying in bed awake for several minutes.  Denethor had gone already, off to take care of the Steward's business, and she was alone in the room.  With a sigh, she got out of bed.  Since his father's death, Denethor had been gone each morning before she awoke and she some days, when he was especially busy, she did not see him until she was preparing for bed.  She had insisted he take his meals with them, at dinnertime at least, and this he tried to do faithfully.  But it was not the same, seeing him with their sons and having time alone together.  Finduilas sighed as she dressed, putting on a deep blue dress that Denethor liked especially.  When she was clothed, she looked at herself critically in the mirror for a long moment.  

Her hair was still black with no traces of grey; there were lines appearing around her eyes but they were not pronounced.  It was within her eyes that Finduilas saw the change.  Even to herself she looked tired, and she had to admit that she had been more often of late.  Sighing, she picked up her hairbrush and began to brush her masses of black hair as she heard the slow creak of her door opening and the sound of two pairs of feet coming across the stones towards her.

A smile lit Finduilas' face as she saw her sons reflected behind her in the mirror.  Boromir, his hair neatly brushed, his clothes in order, walked beside Faramir, holding his younger brother's hand.  Faramir too was already clothed and ready for the day.  "Good morning, boys," Finduilas said as she turned to her sons with a smile.  Each gave her a hug and a kiss and then one of Faramir's small hands twined in her hair as he said in admiration: "You have pretty hair, Mama…"

"Why thank you, Faramir," she said.

"How come you don't leave it like that?"

"I don't know," Finduilas answered her son truthfully.

"Can you?"

"I will if you like it, dearest."

"I do," Faramir said.

"So do I," nine-year-old Boromir agreed.

"Very well then," Finduilas decided, though she pulled the front of it back, leaving most of her abundant hair loose, in a style she had often worn when she was a young woman, before she married.  "Do you like that?" she asked her sons, and they both nodded.  Finduilas smiled.  "Come on then, breakfast is undoubtedly laid out by now."  She took Faramir's hand in hers and Boromir took his brother's other hand as they went to find their breakfast.

It was midmorning when a page appeared before Finduilas, who smiled at him and laid aside her work.  "My lady," he said with a bow, "A ship has come from Dol Amroth.  This has been sent to you."  He handed her an envelope that Finduilas accepted with a rush of joy.  In only a moment, Faramir was by her side and looking over the arm of the chair with great interest.

"Who's it from?" he demanded, excitement on every feature.

"Its from my brother, your uncle," Finduilas answered her small son, "He is requesting that I return to Dol Amroth…he is to be married."

"You're leaving?" Faramir asked.

"If your father gives me leave, I think I shall go," Finduilas answered, excitement building, "I would not miss my brother's wedding."

"I don't want you to leave, Mama…" he said, and she saw tears coming to his grey eyes.  

"Do not worry, Faramir," she said softly, allowing him to climb into the chair beside her, "I think you, your brother and I will go.  Would you like that dearest?"

"And see the sea?" he asked, eyes widening with delight.

"Indeed."

"And meet Grandpa and Grandma?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Mama, yes!  Can we go?"

"We shall see," Finduilas told her small son, "I have to speak to your father, but I do not think he shall object."

"Mama?" Faramir asked.

"Yes, dear?"

"Does Papa not like us anymore?"

"Of course he does," Finduilas said.  "He loves you both very much.  Why do you ask such a question?"

"Well, he used to be around all the time but now he's not."

"Darling, your father is very busy right now with Steward's business.  Our people depend on him, and he does not want to fail them, for their welfare and safety are part of his obligations."

"But aren't we too?" Faramir asked, with remarkable clarity for a four year old.  Finduilas, as she always was when he displayed such wisdom, was momentarily startled into silence.

"Yes, I suppose we are," she answered finally.

"He must have forgot."

"Then I'll have to remind him, won't I, sweetheart?" Finduilas asked, privately resolving to do so that evening.  Faramir gave a contented nod and went back to his play.  

That night, after Finduilas had tucked both of her sons into bed, she slipped into the hallway and went to look for her husband.  When she came to Denethor's study, she opened the door quietly without knocking and paused a moment to look at Denethor as he sat at his desk.  He was deeply engrossed in something on a paper before him, the firelight flickering in his face, and Finduilas recognized the signs of exhaustion on his face.  With an internal sigh, she opened the door a little further and slipped inside, shutting it with a soft click behind her.

"I told you, Ceithin, I require nothing."  He paused in his reading and looked up when her footsteps continued across the stone floor.  "Finduilas!" he said in surprise.  "What are you doing here?"

"Am I not allowed here?" Finduilas asked as she reached his side.

"Of course you are," Denethor answered.  "Is something the matter?"

"You missed dinner," Finduilas began.

"I am sorry," Denethor said, and she sighed.

"Its all right," she said, sitting down in a chair beside his.  "I got a letter from my brother today."

"Ah yes, the ship…How is your brother?"

"He is to be married."

"Married?  Good."  

"I would like to go for the wedding with our sons," Finduilas told him, and he smiled as he reached out to take her hands, finally looking completely away from the paper before him.  She sighed inwardly as he spoke.

"Of course you can go. It will be a good experience for them to see Dol Amroth," he said, with a smile that reminded her of the early days of their marriage.  It faded quickly as he spoke again.  "I wish I could join you, but…"

"You have too much to do, I know," Finduilas said, and as much as she tried to conceal it, she heard an edge of disappointment in her own voice.  Denethor was too shrewd not to catch the tone.  

"What is the matter, Finduilas?" he asked her, concern spreading over his face.

She sighed, and spoke, looking at her husband seriously, "I understand that you have much to do, and that our people depend on you in many ways, but your sons need you too."

"Finduilas, there is much to be done," he said, pulling away from her as he spoke.  "You know it is time for the gathering of all the nobles of Gondor, and there is much to plan and prepare before then."

"That is nearly a year away, Denethor," she said.

"I know," he answered, "But there is still much to be done if everything is to move smoothly.  There is…"

"Denethor," she interrupted, "Do you know what your son asked me today?"

"No," Denethor answered curtly.  He hated being interrupted, and Finduilas knew it, but she continued anyway.

"His exact words were, 'Does Papa not like us anymore?'  Darling, they miss you."  She paused, and then in a soft voice added, "_I_ miss you."  She looked down to where her hands was folded in her lap and resolved to say no more.

A heavy silence descended, and the tension between them was almost tangible, as it had never been in their eleven years together.  Denethor did not speak, and after a long silence, Finduilas sighed.  The rustling of her skirts was loud in the silent room as she stood and turned to leave.  However, before she could take a step, her hand was caught and she turned to look at her husband, who was clinging to her hand tightly.

Denethor appeared to be deep in thought; his shoulders were curbed and he was slumped forward in his chair and Finduilas thought, for the first time, that he looked old.  She found herself drawn to her seat again, but the silence continued, until it became so horrible that Finduilas knew she could no longer bear it.  "Denethor, I…I have to be a little selfish.  I know you have many responsibilities, but you also have to remember that your family is also your responsibility.  I…I know it can't be as it was before.  But your sons need more of your time, as do I, even if you simply hold me as we fall asleep.  Simple gestures like that would make all the difference to myself and your sons.  

"I know you love me.  I have never doubted that and I never will.  But knowing something is different than _feeling _it, darling."  Denethor still said nothing.  "Think about what I've said.  We depart tomorrow for Dol Amroth, and I do not expect to return for some time."  She rose to her feet and this time Denethor made no move to stop her.  "Goodnight, dear."

She crossed to the door and, when she turned back, found he had not moved.  With a sigh, she opened the door and slipped out.

When Finduilas awoke the next morning, there was no sign that Denethor's side of their bed had even be slept in, but she tried to pay it no notice as she got up and dressed.  The ship would depart midmorning, and she had to prepare herself and her sons.  Having packed the night before, she arranged to have her trunk and the one her sons would share taken, and then crossed the hall to her sons' room.

They were finished dressing, and jumped up when she came into the room.  "Come boys," she said with a smile, "We just have time for breakfast, and then we must go.  Are you excited?"  As she watched them jump to their feet she reflected there really had been no need to ask, but Faramir spoke anyway, anticipation causing his voice to tremble.

"Yes!" he answered her enthusiastically, "I can't wait to see the sea, Mama, and meet Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Imrahil…and to go sailing, and…"  Finduilas laughed as he continued to talk about how much fun he was going to have.  She took Faramir's right hand as Boromir took his left, and together they walked down to the room where they ate their breakfast.

Denethor was not there, and she felt a rush of relief mixed with regret, but she ate anyway, making sure that Faramir was not talking too much to forget his breakfast.  When they had finished, she smiled at them both and, rising to their feet, she and Boromir took Faramir's hands again.  He laughed and chattered, and she and his older brother listened to him indulgently, often joining him in his childish laughter.

Yet Finduilas did not feel the laughter, not truly, and she kept looking about her for any sign of her husband.  Surely he would not let them leave without appearing to say goodbye…Yet by the time they were entering the courtyard where their escort waited, her heart had sunk and a wave of disappointment rushed over her, even as they stepped out into the brightness and warmth of the late spring morning.

Denethor was standing there, holding the bridle of her horse, and with a rush of relief and shame she smiled at him.  He returned the smile somewhat hesitantly and did not speak to her until both Boromir and Faramir were safely on their horses.  When he did turn to her, he spoke in a low voice so that no one else could hear.  "Goodbye, beloved," he said, "Give my best wishes to your brother and his new wife, and greetings to your parents."

"I shall," Finduilas answered, and she reached out and squeezed his hand.  He squeezed it back and then leaned in to kiss her forehead gently.  

"Take care."

"I will," she assured him, and allowed him to help her up onto her horse behind Faramir, who was excited at the prospect of a ride.  Being as young as he was, he did not ride often, and only with a choice few people his parents trusted to keep him safe.  He chattered away as they rode down through the city, quite oblivious to the looks and smiles he was getting from the people of Minas Tirith.  Finduilas, however, was aware of it, and she smiled and nodded to as many as she could as she guided the horse down.  Boromir, seated in front of his swordmaster, was silent, but his mother could see his excitement.  It was not very perceptible, but as she knew her son better than any other, she could see the slight tenseness in his posture that spoke volumes to her.

It did not take long before they had left the city and were riding across the Pelannor.  She smiled down at the people as she passed, glad that Faramir had ceased talking and was looking about him with wide eyes.  "Its so big out here, Mother," he whispered to her as they passed through the Rammas Echor, for it was the first time he had been outside the great defensive wall.  She smiled. 

"The world is a large place, Faramir," she said to him, "Are you afraid?"  He looked around them again.

"No," he answered, and his mother could detect no sense of fear in his voice, only awe.  "Are we going very far?"

"Indeed we are, dearest," Finduilas answered her small son, "All the way down the Great River to the sea.  And then we shall have to sail for several days to reach my parents' home.

"How long until we get there?"

"About a week," she answered patiently, "But do not fear, Faramir, there will be plenty to see between here and there."  He fell silent again as they rode, but she was sure his attentive grey eyes missed nothing.  She glanced over to her older son, and noted his excitement also building for the ship they were to take had appeared on the horizon.  Faramir gasped.  "Boromir!" he said, and almost tried to stand up on the running horse, "Boromir, look!  Is that the ship?"

"Yes it is," Boromir answered, giving his brother an indulgent smile that Faramir returned with childish enthusiasm.  Finduilas felt the memory of her troubles with Denethor slipping away and resolutely decided that she would not allow it to trouble her, for there was nothing to be done until she returned.

Her thoughts as she boarded the ship were only of her sons and containing their excitement so they would not fall overboard.

            Several days later, Finduilas was awakened by a knock on her door and her small son's head as it popped around the corner.  "Mama?" Faramir whispered, "Mama, they said we'll be there soon.  Get up!  Mama, wake up!"

            "I'm awake, Faramir," she said, rolling over and sitting up as he came all the way into the room.  "Why, Faramir, you're dressed already."

            "We woke up early," Faramir said, "We thought we'd get ready."

            "You've been good though, haven't you?"

            "Yes," Faramir answered her, "Boromir kept me out of trouble, and I kept him out of trouble and neither of us was in trouble at all."

            "That's good dear," Finduilas said as she got out of bed, her son's excitement proving contagious, "Where is Boromir?"

            "Up on deck.  He wanted to be the first to see the city.  I'm going to go back up there, if its okay, Mama."

            "Of course," she answered her son, "I'll be there in a moment."  After he disappeared again, she dressed quickly, finding her son's enthusiasm catching.  She regarded herself critically for a moment and pleased she went up onto the deck, finding Boromir and Faramir together at the bow of the ship.  Boromir was holding his brother up so he could see over the railing, and Finduilas smiled as she came up behind them, ruffling Faramir's hair lovingly and placing her hand on Boromir's shoulder.  "The city is just around this next peninsula," she told her boys, "We shall be able to see it any moment now."

            "There!" Boromir suddenly cried, "Look, Faramir!"  Both boys shaded their eyes and Finduilas felt a rush of happiness so strong it took her breath away.  The sight of the swan banners flying from the towers and the city grey between the dark blue of the sea and the lighter blue of the sky filled her with comfort.  Minas Tirith had been her home for many years, but Dol Amroth had a feel to it, a comfort about it that her husband's city would never have.

            Then they drew closer and Finduilas' smile grew even wider as she spotted a group of people waiting on the piers.  For the first time in eleven years, her father's beloved face came into view, standing beside her mother, with Imrahil by her side.  "There's your grandfather and grandmother, and your uncle," Finduilas told her sons, and both Boromir and Faramir began to wave madly at the assembly on the docks, for indeed there were many more people behind her family, waiting to welcome her home.

            "Come on, boys," she said with a smile, and led them to the gangplank just as the ship slid into dock.  Boromir had put Faramir down, but was still holding his younger brother's hand, while Finduilas kept one hand on each of their shoulders.  She held them to keep them out of the way, but the first moment when it was clear, she let them go and they went racing down the gangplank to where their grandparents and uncle waited.

            As much as Finduilas desired to throw propriety to the wind and run after them herself, she forced herself to walk calmly even though every nerve in her body was tingling with excitement and she yearned to throw herself into her father's arms.  The instant her feet hit the dock, she found her willpower disappearing and she could hold back no longer.  Following her son's lead, she ran to her father and did indeed throw herself into his arms, feeling tears of joy coming to her eyes.

            "Father," she said, her face breaking out into a smile as they pulled apart to gaze at each other.  Finduilas saw tears in Adrahil's eyes as they regarded each other, and her joy was tempered for a moment when she realized how much her father had aged since her departure.

            "Dearest Finduilas," Adrahil said, kissing her brow, "Welcome home."

            "This isn't home," Faramir inserted suddenly, looking up at his grandfather seriously.  "Minas Tirith is."

            "Faramir," his mother said gently, as she embraced her mother.

            "What?" her small son replied, "It isn't, as much as it is awful nice here and I like them a lot."  She noticed he was sucking on a piece of candy, as was Boromir.  She raised an eyebrow at Imrahil, who smiled sheepishly as he embraced her.  

            "Someone has to spoil them," brother told sister, merriment dancing in his eyes.

            "You just wait until you have children, dear brother, and I shall spoil them far more than you spoil mine!" Finduilas promised, her own eyes sparkling with merriment.

            "I am sure you will, sister-mine," Imrahil told her with a laugh, "I look forward to that day."  She smiled at him warmly and squeezed his hand, then turned to look to her mother, who was speaking to Boromir and Faramir.  True to themselves, her sons were already talking about anything that came into their minds and Eärwen was listening with as much patience as she had when Finduilas and Imrahil were little.

            Faramir turned to her, and Finduilas smiled at him as he reached out his arms, begging to be picked up.  Finduilas did so, settling him easily on her hip as Faramir turned to look seriously at his grandfather.  "Hello," Adrahil said.

            "I'm Faramir," her son said to his grandfather, causing Eärwen, Imrahil, Boromir and Finduilas to break into laughter.

            "He knows that, Faramir!" Boromir said between laughs.  Yet Adrahil did not laugh.  He met his grandson's gaze seriously and, giving a small bow, answered his grandson formally.

            "Well met, Faramir," he said, "It is an honor to welcome you to Dol Amroth."

            "Its an honor to be here," Faramir answered, his childish voice speaking the grown up words earnestly, "Thank you for your hospitality."

            "You have raised him well," Eärwen said with a laugh, "He's quite a little man!"

"They both are," Finduilas said, smiling at her older son as well.  Boromir, as he was liable to do, looked slightly embarrassed and said nothing.

"Indeed so," Adrahil said, "But come, come!  You must be tired, and I'm sure you would like to rest a little."  He put his arm around his daughter's shoulders in a loose embrace as they began to walk and whispered in her ear.  "I've missed you."

"And I you, Papa," Finduilas whispered back, and she held her own son a little tighter, remembering her wish for a daughter, and feeling now how thankful she was that her own children would most likely never marry only to leave her behind.  She gave Faramir a little squeeze as she held him, and watched as his head swiveled back and forth so he would miss nothing, his eyes wide with wonder.

            Within an hour, they were established in the room that had been Finduilas' as a child.  Nothing had changed, save the addition of a small bed for each of her sons, and when Finduilas entered the room a smile spread across her face as she reminded herself of her old room, her eyes touching everything in their turn.  Faramir brushed past her excitedly and Boromir followed a pace behind, as they began to explore every nook and cranny of the room.

            Finduilas heard laughter behind her, and she turned to see her mother just behind her, looking over her shoulder at her grandsons.  "They are wonderful," Eärwen said contentedly. "Such dear boys."

            "They are," Finduilas answered, "Faramir reminds me so much of Imrahil at his age.  He is such a light in my life.  Children in Minas Tirith grow up too quickly.  Already Boromir is training as hard as lads twice his age do here.  He'll be a man before I know it.  But Faramir…he is yet a child and it comforts me."

            "Do you know who Boromir reminds me of?" Eärwen asked her daughter.

            "Nay," Finduilas answered, turning to look at her mother quizzically. 

            "You, daughter."  She motioned to the boys, who were paused at the side of the room.  Faramir had accidentally slipped and fallen, and Boromir was helping his younger brother up and checking for any injury.  "The way he cares for Faramir is just the way you did when your brother was young."

            "He has always been like that.  When Faramir was born I told Boromir that being an older brother was a great responsibility, and he promised that he would always help him and protect him.  And my Boromir is nothing if not steadfast when it comes to a promise he has made."  Finduilas smiled as she watched her sons come back over to them.

            "Mama, we want to go see the beach!" Faramir said, "Please?"

            "I do not wish do disappoint you, my dears, but it has been a long trip, and I think I would like to rest awhile."  Both of her sons face's fell.

            "I'll take them," a voice came from behind her, and Finduilas turned to see Imrahil entering her sitting room.

            "That's perfect," Finduilas said with a smile, "Boys, how would you like to go with your uncle?"

            "Yes!" Boromir answered with enthusiasm, and Finduilas was taken aback by it.  It was true that Boromir was just as enthusiastic as his little brother, but he rarely voiced it.  When he did, it gave her particular pleasure to agree to what he wanted.  She smiled.

            "All right then, go on."  She turned to her brother.  "Not to 'our' beach, Imrahil.  I want to be with them the first time they see it."

            "Of course," Imrahil answered, glancing down at his nephews.  Faramir was talking to Boromir so rapidly it was hard to follow what he was saying.

            "You sure you'll be all right with them?" their mother asked their uncle dryly.

            "If I can handle your tongue, I'm sure I can handle theirs," he answered, with a smile at her.  "Come on then, boys.  I'll show you some different kinds of ships up close."

            "Really?" Faramir asked, and his grey eyes shone.

            "Really," Imrahil answered as they turned to leave the room.  Finduilas laughed, and turned to her mother.

            "Boromir is not usually so open with his enthusiasm."

            "Well, he and Imrahil had quite a discussion over swords and such earlier.  I think young Boromir is quite taken with him."

            "I don't doubt it…" Finduilas answered, and there was a melancholy note in her voice.

            "Now dear," her mother said, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, "You know that he cannot stay young forever."

            "I know, mother," Finduilas answered.  "I only wish he was not growing up so quickly.  He is already able to spar with the ten and eleven year olds, and he's only eight.  I fear it will be far too early that he will be allowed to go into battle for the first time."

            "Surely your husband would not allow him to go too young…he is to be the next Steward after all."

            "Denethor is proud of his progress.  I am sure if Boromir wished to go and the swordmaster said he was ready Denethor would have nothing to say against it."  She sighed, and a wave of weariness washed over her.  Eärwen noticed, and she squeezed her daughter's shoulder.  

            "You need a rest, dear.  It has been a long journey.  I'll be sure to have you awakened in time for dinner."

            "Thank you, Mother.  It is so good to be home."

            "I am glad to have you with us," Eärwen answered, and quietly left the room.  Finduilas smiled and walked over to shut the curtains, blocking most of the light from the bright day outside.  When she lay down, she was asleep in moments.

That evening, when Finduilas entered the dining room after her nap, her gaze fell almost immediately on the tall young woman standing by Eärwen's side.  She was taller than Finduilas, who estimated that this young lady would be nearly as tall as Imrahil himself.  She had reddish-golden hair that was unornamented and hung loose down her back.  Her eyes were hazel and had a gentle and kind look in them as she surveyed the room calmly, standing silently by her future mother-in-law.

The moment she entered the room, several sets of eyes turned to them and Eärwen motioned for Finduilas to come join her, and Finduilas moved to do so, though her young sons stopped her in her tracks, their faces beaming with happiness.  She smiled back at them.  "Did you have fun with your uncle?" she asked.

            "Yeah.  He showed us all the different sorts of ships, and then we walked on the beach.  Faramir fell in, but he didn't get hurt, just wet."

            "I'm fine, Mama!" her younger son said. "And I got seaweed in my hair," Faramir added proudly, "Uncle Imrahil says that some people here eat seaweed.  Is that true, Mama?"

"It is indeed," Finduilas answered.  "Have you met your aunt yet?"  When they shook their heads, Finduilas added, "Well come then," and pushed both of her sons over to her mother, casting a smile at the newcomer by her mother's side.  Eärwen turned to the young lady as Finduilas stopped before them.  "This, of course, is my daughter Finduilas," she said kindly, "And these…" Finduilas saw Boromir and Faramir straighten, "Are my grandsons.  This is Boromir…" 

"How do you do," Boromir said as bowed.

            "And Faramir," Eärwen concluded.

            "How do you do," Faramir said, also bowing.  When he had finished, he looked anxiously up at his older brother who nodded with a wink, and Faramir broke into a smile.  _Valar help me_…Finduilas thought, _I mustn't laugh._

            "This," Eärwen added, "Is Lady Eryniel.  She is to be your aunt," she addressed the boys.

            "Aunt?" Faramir asked, "But I was just getting used to having an uncle!"  Finduilas was not surprised, yet still she looked anxiously to the young woman who was to marry her brother, hoping she would not see offense written on her face.  But the woman was smiling, and she knelt down so she was at Faramir's eye level, and spoke to him softly, her eyes kind.

            Faramir answered her in a small voice, and smiled as his hand sought his brother's.  Finduilas took a moment to glance at her mother, who was also smiling down at her grandsons.  When she met Finduilas' eyes, she gave a slight nod, and Finduilas understood the unspoken communication.  Eärwen was pleased with this young woman, and Finduilas found herself so as well.  But then again, Finduilas knew she would be pleased with anyone who so obviously approved of her sons.

            When she looked back, Boromir and Faramir were gone, heading over to their Uncle, and Eärwen was saying she needed to speak with her husband, leaving Eryniel and Finduilas standing alone together.  Finduilas smiled at the younger woman, who returned the salutation and spoke.  "I am pleased to finally meet you, Lady Finduilas," she said, "Lord Imrahil has told me much about you."  Finduilas laughed.

            "I hope some of it was good."

            "I assure you, it all was.  He thinks very highly of you."

            "We have always been close.  I have missed him since my marriage.  With father getting older, Imrahil could not be spared to come to Minas Tirith, and I have not been free to leave my city either.  This is the first I have seen him since Boromir was born, and that will be nine years ago this autumn."

            "Is your son so young?  He carries himself as though he were older than eight."

            "Indeed he does," Finduilas answered.  "He is a very serious little lad, and desires more than anything else to please his father by attempting to emulate him."  Finduilas smiled, "Although he is not entirely like his father.  I am glad he received a bit of myself as well."  

"And what of your younger?  He seems like such a darling, m'lady," Eryniel said.

            "Please, call me Finduilas," she said, "We are to be family after all.  As for Faramir, he is a darling.  He reminds me of Imrahil when Imrahil was young.  If Boromir is Denethor's son, then Faramir is mine.  Not that I do not love them both of course…" she added, hoping she would not be misunderstood.

            "I understand completely," Eryniel said.  "It is the same with my sister and I and our parents.  It is a pity that my sister could not come to the wedding, but she is expecting her first child, and it was not possible for her to travel."

            "Do you know when you shall be wed?"

            "The day after tomorrow," Eryniel answered, and her smile widened, "Although I wish it were this instant.  It has not been a long wait, but it has been a difficult one."  Finduilas nodded her understanding, thinking back to the long winter she had spent between her engagement and her wedding.  Denethor had been so far away, and it had seemed as though the spring would never come.

At that moment, a rush of homesickness surprised Finduilas as she stood in the place that once she had thought the only home she would ever have.  Yet now, she thought of Denethor, taking his meal alone in their family's dining room and she suddenly wished for him, so sharply that she almost gasped with the weight of the feeling.

Yet in another moment, she corrected herself.  Denethor would be working so hard that he would undoubtedly take his meal in his office; he would welcome the extra time to take care of the many pressing duties of the Steward of Gondor.  She checked a sigh, remembering her kindly father-in-law.  He had never spent so much time working in the years she had dwelt in Minas Tirith; he had always taken time in the evening to spend with his family.

"Is this the first time you have been home since your marriage then?" Eryniel interrupted Finduilas' musings with a question, and Finduilas nodded.

"Yes it is," she replied.  "The city itself has not changed at all, it seems.  It is so quiet here, so peaceful.  Not at all like the atmosphere of Minas Tirith."

"I know nothing of the White City," Eryniel reflected, "For I have never been there."

"You are welcome to come whenever you wish," Finduilas offered, "We would love to have you."

"Perhaps," the younger woman answered, "It would be nice for your brother.  He often tells me how much he misses you."  She laughed.  "I am glad you are his sister, else I would think you had stolen his heart."

"Who had stolen whose heart?" a rumbling voice asked, and both women turned to Imrahil who had come up to them.  "Sister, you're not attempting to hinder my marriage are you?"

"Indeed not!" she said, "I would not even think of attempting to do such a thing, when it is so amazing that she decided she would have you at all!  We may never get such a chance again."

"Is that so?" Imrahil asked.

"Indeed," Finduilas answered him, her eyes shining merrily.  She glanced around the room and her gaze fell on Boromir and Faramir who, having seated themselves in the corner, were deep in conversation with each other.  In the meantime, Imrahil took his future wife's hand and smiled, looking deep into her eyes with true contentment.  Finduilas turned away, feeling like an intruder in the moment between her brother and his fiancée, and was glad when they were called to dinner only a moment later.

            Later that evening, after she had put the boys to bed with a promise that they not talk too long, she slipped from the room after extinguishing the candles, and sought out the gardens.  She was tired, but she did not feel like sleeping, as a vague malaise had settled over her and remaining still seemed to accentuate it.

            Finduilas sighed as she walked the garden.  It had been a long journey and, as happy as she was to have returned to Dol Amroth, she began to wonder whether she ought to have come at all.  Remembering back to the winter she had spent alone between her engagement and her marriage, she should have realized how being apart from Denethor would affect her.  

            True, she had not seen him for more than a few moments each day since his father had died, but it was comforting to know that he was near, even when they were not together.  She sighed and walked away from the part of the garden where they had spent most of their time together and went down into the second section.  This was built on a small bluff that looked over the rest of the city, and a stone rail separated her from the edge.  She leaned up against it, smelling the flowers and the sea air about her and hearing the calming sound of the waves lapping against the shore.  The moon was nearly full and reflected brightly on the water.

            She reveled in the beauty before her, a small half smile on her face as she watched the waves lapping on the shore and the moon shining on the water.  It touched her in a way that nothing else ever had; a sense of peace washed over her and she forgot her worries and her weariness and just was.

            "It is good to see you here again," a voice said from behind her.  Rather than breaking the moment, it was part of it, a familiar piece in the scene about her.

            "It is good to be here again," Finduilas replied as Imrahil stepped up next to her.

            "I thought you would be in the upper gardens."

            "As did I," Finduilas said, "And I was for awhile.  But I found I was preoccupied there, and I did not wish to be."

            "Is something the matter, sister?"  Finduilas paused.  She knew how protective Imrahil could be, and was well aware of the promise he had made at her wedding, but she did not wish to lie to him.

            "I will not deny that life has been…somewhat difficult of late," she said, choosing her words carefully.  "I try not to mind, but…"

            "But what?" Imrahil asked, looking at her seriously.

            "Since his father died," Finduilas explained, "Denethor has spent nearly every waking moment in his study.  He cares about his country so much that he refuses to let anyone else take on some of his burdens.  Boromir does not say anything, but I know he feels his father's absence, and Faramir asked me the other day if Denethor still liked them.  What was I to say to that?  Faramir understands so much for a child his age, but he is still a child.  He cannot understand everything…"

            "And what about you, Finduilas?" Imrahil asked.

            "I miss him also," she admitted.  "And before you ask," she continued, "I have told him so."

            "Then there is nothing more you can do," Imrahil conceded, "But if Denethor's the man I thought he was, and indeed should be, he will realize how wrong he is."

            "He will never admit that," Finduilas said with a laugh.

            "No, probably not, but he can change his actions without admitting he was wrong."  Finduilas acquiesced that point.  "I have a feeling," Imrahil said, "That he'll come to see his mistake after you've been away for a month."

            "That is my hope," she answered, and they fell into a comfortable silence for several long moments before Finduilas broke it again.  "Eryniel is a very sweet woman, Imrahil," Finduilas said, "She suits you."  She turned and, though it was difficult, in the moonlight she thought her brother was blushing.

            "I am quite fond of her," he said after a moment.  Finduilas laughed.

            "It is fine to say you love her, Imrahil," she said.  "I understand that."

            "I know you do," he said, "It is still hard to believe that I shall be married in less than two days time."

            "It comes to the best of us," Finduilas said.  "And before you know, it'll be even more frightening."

            "How so?"

            "Children," Finduilas said with a laugh.

            Their rest of their visit to Dol Amroth sped by quickly.  The wedding had been simple, yet beautiful, and it made Finduilas remember her own wedding with warmth, though it increased her desire to see her own husband again.

            Boromir and Faramir reveled in everything, taking in the new sights and activities with boyish enthusiasm, making Finduilas wish they had made the journey sooner.  They sailed and rowed to their hearts' content and spent many long hours with their mother and uncle walking the shore and visiting the beach that Finduilas and Imrahil called their own.  

            Yet through it all, Finduilas was troubled by a vague malaise, which grew stronger as the time passed.  She found herself spending more time sitting within sight of the sea, just watching as the waves lapped on the shore and the gulls cried overhead.  She still loved them as much as she had when she was a child and now, she found, Faramir did as well.  He would sit by her side watching them for hours, and both mother and son were contented to do so as Boromir sparred with his uncle nearby.

Yet it was time for their journey home.  Their sojourn by the sea had lasted nearly two months, and their return could be delayed no longer.  Finduilas, although she had been happy to spend time in her first home, desired nothing more than to return to Minas Tirith.  She missed Denethor far more than she admitted to anyone and above all else, she yearned to be done with the long journey and back in her own home.

The last night, Finduilas lay in bed listening to the crash of the waves against the shore and her sons' gentle breathing as they slept.  She was exhausted, feeling weariness down to her very bones, yet sleep remained elusive.  She turned over in bed to lie on her side, watching her sons as they slept.  The moonlight fell across both of their beds, illuminating their young features, and Finduilas felt herself smile.  Boromir lay stretched out on his back; he had thrown the covers partially off and his face was the very picture of peace.

Faramir, on the other hand, was curled tightly up on his side, his hands were clenched into the blanket covering him, and his face was screwed up in some emotion; whether it was fear or pain or distress Finduilas did not know.  She was about ready to rise from bed to comfort her young son, when suddenly he jerked and sat straight up in bed with a small cry, tears streaming from his grey eyes.

Almost as if he hadn't thought, Faramir was out of bed.  Finduilas sat up and her son, who had originally been heading for his brother's bed, raced for her.  He jumped up onto the bed and crawled over to her, throwing himself into her arms as he sobbed silently.  Finduilas pulled him close to her and rocked him, stroking his hair and whispering wordless sounds of comfort as he wept. 

When he calmed a little, she whispered to him to avoid waking his brother.  "Faramir, love, what's the matter?"

"I had an awful dream, Mama," he answered, clinging to her nightgown.

"What happened, dearest?" she asked, still stroking his hair as she held him close.

"You were gone, Mama," he said, "And I looked and looked and looked and I couldn't find you.  And Boromir came and found me and we were okay for a while, but then he disappeared too and I couldn't find Papa, and I was scared, and I wanted you so badly but you weren't there."

"Don't worry," she said, "I'm here Faramir."

"Can I sleep here?" he asked.  Finduilas smiled.  Ordinarily, if he were to have a nightmare at home, his father would not allow him to remain with her in their bed.  But now, thousands of miles away from Minas Tirith, Finduilas felt herself smile.  

"Yes," she answered, lying back down and pulling him with her.  He curled up tightly against her side, and she continued to stroke his back until he fell asleep.  She was not far behind him in succumbing to sleep.

When she awoke the next morning, she was surprised to find that Boromir had joined them during the night and had wrapped his arm around Faramir from the other side.  Finduilas smiled and propped her head up on one hand to watch them sleep for a moment.  The weariness and malaise she had felt the night before were gone, replaced by contentment as she watched her sons sleep.

            Faramir's back was to her, and when she had pulled away he had snuggled unconsciously closer to his brother, who reacted by pulling Faramir closer.  Both of their faces were completely relaxed and peaceful, their black hair tousled and matted by sleep.  _If only_, she thought, _Denethor were here, this moment would be perfect._  

            Finduilas smiled in spite of that thought as she rose quietly from bed.  Still in her nightdress, she walked over and sat down before the mirror at her vanity and began to brush out her own hair, just as tangled from sleep as her sons'.  While she did so, she hummed softly to herself, and felt her spirits lifting even more than they had been during their visit.  It was wonderful, she decided, to return to her birthplace and to see her family and everything else she had left behind, but it was even more wonderful to be going home.  She missed Denethor more than she admitted to anyone, although she thought her mother suspected; Eärwen had always been perceptive of her daughter's feelings, often before Finduilas fully recognized them herself.

            She wrapped her abundant hair into a knot on the back of her head and pinned it well to keep it from blowing in the wind on the ship, and reflected that this perception was a trait all mothers possessed, at least in part.  Finduilas was just as keen to notice changes in her sons' moods as Eärwen had always been with her own.

            Finduilas dressed quietly and then she walked over to the side of the bed where her sons still slept, oblivious to the sun streaming in through the window.  She watched them for a moment, loath to break their peace by waking them, but she had delayed as long as was possible.  She leaned over them and with a gentle touch on each shoulder and some soft words, woke them from their slumber.

            They stirred and Boromir turned sleepy grey eyes to her.  "Wake up darlings," she said in response to the question in his eyes.  "We have to prepare to depart."  Boromir sat up in bed.

            "Are you sure we can't stay longer, Mother?" he asked, as he gave Faramir, who had only stirred, a good shake to try to get him out of bed.

            "Yes, I am," she said with a smile, and sat down on the bed beside him.  "You love it here, don't you?"

            "Well," he said, and there was a pause.  Finduilas understood.

            "You're going to miss your uncle," she said with a loving laugh.  Boromir gave her a sheepish look and nodded. 

            "Its not that I don't like it here, mother…" he said.

            "But scenery has never been high in your esteem, unless it belongs to the White City herself.  I understand, Boromir."  She smiled gently at him, and he returned it with a wide grin.  "Now, can you get yourself dressed please, dear? I must wake your brother." Boromir nodded and jumped out of bed and went to dress himself.  Finduilas turned to Faramir.

            "Faramir darling," she said and she gave him a soft shake.  "I know you're awake, so pretending you are not will do you no good."  His grey eyes opened and when they caught hers they were exasperated in a manner that only a four-year-old could have.

            "You _always_ know," he said with a little pout.

            "Indeed I do," she answered as he sat up.  "I did that to my own mother when I was young."  She smiled at him.  "We cannot delay this morning, dear heart.  The ship will depart without us, and we cannot have that.  Your father is looking for us to come home."

            "Do we have to go?" he asked.

            "Yes, Faramir, we do."

            "But I love it here.  I want to stay.  I love the ocean and the birds, and Grandma and Grandpa and I don't want to go yet."

            "I know, darling.  I do also, but you know what else I love?"

            "What?" he asked.

            "Well, your father, to begin," she said, "And sitting in front of the fire in my room with you and your brother, and walking in my garden, and standing on top of the White Tower to watch the sunset. You love those things too, don't you, Faramir?"

            "Yes," he said, and he smiled at her.

            "If we were to stay here, darling, we could not do any of those things.  And that would make Mother very sad.  You do not want me to be sad, do you, dear?"

            "Never," he answered seriously.

            "Can you get yourself dressed and ready then, my Faramir?"

            "Yes," he answered.  It took only a few minutes for him to dress and then Finduilas herself brushed his hair.  By the time she was done helping Faramir, Boromir had finished dressing and made all three of the beds.  

            "You both look very handsome," she told her sons with a smile.  "Are you ready for breakfast?"  They both nodded, and together the three of them went out of the room.

Usually, their breakfasts had been merry affairs, for Dol Amroth's people were lighthearted and the prince's family was no different.  Yet this morning, the meal was sober.  Conversation was kind and loving, but overshadowed by the coming parting so it had lost its mirth; Finduilas spoke little but watched much.  Her sons sat next to each other at her left side, Boromir keeping a watchful eye on Faramir; neither child speaking at all unless spoken to.  It was not strange for Boromir to be quiet, and Faramir, it seemed, sensed the sadness in the room and did not wish to speak either.  Eryniel and Imrahil sat across from her family, and Finduilas smiled as she watched them discreetly.  Whenever Imrahil spoke to his wife, his voice was gentle, and whenever they looked at each other their eyes shone with such contentment that it made Finduilas feel as if she were a newlywed herself, and increased her desire for Denethor tenfold.

Finally there were her parents, sitting at the head and foot of the table as they always had, Eärwen smiling benignly over her family while Adrahil talked to Boromir about his studies as he had once talked to Imrahil.  Finduilas smiled contentedly as she finished her breakfast and waited patiently while the rest of the family finished theirs.  No one seemed to be hurried to finish, but when they all finally had, Adrahil looked at her with a sad smile as he rose to his feet and the rest of the family followed suit.  "We cannot delay any longer," the Prince said, his voice holding the ring of regret that stressed just how much he wished they could.  Finduilas nodded, smiling sadly at her father, and allowed him to take her arm as they left the dining room.

When Dol Amroth had, for the second time in Finduilas' life, disappeared in the distance behind them, Finduilas felt a rush of weariness.  In being true to their childish natures, Boromir and Faramir were excited about the journey ahead, and raced around the boat, taking in everything they could see and once again asking the sailors as many questions as they could think of.  Finduilas herself sat in the shade on the deck, out of the way, and watched them.  The journey back to Minas Tirith would be longer, for they had to fight the current of the Great River, and Finduilas wished it were over with and that she was seated in her armchair before the fire in her own chambers.

She sighed.  The parting with her parents had been in some ways easier and in some ways harder than the first.  Then she had feared what she would find at the end of her journey; she had known Denethor would be there, but he had been the only familiar thing in a city of strangers.  This time, she was returning to a home; a place she knew and had made her own.  Yet at the same time, she thought back to the age in her father's face, how he had grown old in the years since her marriage.  She knew that this parting might very well be the final parting, the last time she would ever see her beloved father in life, for she was not sure if he meant to come to the Great Council in Minas Tirith.  It would be far more prudent, due to his advanced age, to send his son in his place.

There was a rush of sadness then; so strong she had to fight to keep it from showing on her face, as if it were the first touch of a great grief to come.  These thoughts were foolish and morbid; she scolded herself, yet she could not deny the touch of truth in them.  Finduilas shut her eyes and tried to calm herself; when she felt the light touch on her shoulder she first thought she had imagined it.  Yet when she opened her eyes Faramir was crawling into her lap with a concerned look in his grey eyes.  He wrapped his small arms around her neck and clung to her.  "Its okay, Mama," he said softly.  "We're going home now, and we'll be there soon, and you can do all that stuff you said you wanted to do.  And then next summer maybe we can come back, because I don't want to stay away for a very long time because I liked it there." 

Finduilas smiled.  "Perhaps we can," she answered, somewhat cryptically.  "I take it then that you boys enjoyed yourselves and are glad you went?"  Faramir nodded happily.

"Boromir?" Finduilas asked, and her older son smiled at her as he sat down in a chair by her side.

"I am, Mother, but I am mostly happy to be going home."  

"I am too, Boromir," she answered, returning his smile as she reached over and squeezed his shoulder.

"Me too," Faramir piped in.  Finduilas squeezed him gently and tried not to wonder if Denethor would be as happy to know they were coming home.

The long journey over, Finduilas felt a rush of relief as they rode through the Great Gate.  It was late; the stars were already out and the moon was rising and the city was quiet and the streets empty.  Light and laughter floated out of some of the dwellings they passed; others were dark and silent, empty testaments to better days.  Faramir was dozing on the horse in front of her and Finduilas took special care to keep him from falling.  Boromir looked exhausted, though he was not prone to show such things on his reliable face, and Finduilas herself had never felt so tired.  When they rode into the courtyard beneath the Tower of Ecthelion, she was glad to turn the boys over to Isëlmra, who had met them there.  Once she had embraced them, giving them each a goodnight kiss, she went immediately to her own chambers.

Denethor was not there, but she had not been expecting him to be.  Their return was sudden, it was late, and undoubtedly he would not have expected them.  And, she had to admit herself, she was rather glad of it.  A sometimes dull, sometimes sharp achy pain seemed to have manifested in every joint in her body; and her head was spinning, she assumed with exhaustion.  In fact, she wanted nothing more than to lie down in bed and sleep.

With trembling hands, Finduilas was trying to unbutton her dress when there was a soft knock on the door, and Isëlmra came in.  "M'lady, I'm glad you're back," she said, laying the clothes she had been carrying down on a chair.  "Your boys are in bed, sound asleep, the dear souls.  They were exhausted."  She looked Finduilas over sharply.  "Are you well, child?" she demanded, "You're white as a ghost, you are."

"I'm just tired," Finduilas said, "That is all."

"Well no wonder.  Come on dear, let me help you."  Isëlmra's strong, capable hands undid the dress down the back.  "There you are," she said, "Now here's your nightdress, and we'll tuck you in to bed.  You'll feel more yourself after a good night's sleep."  Finduilas wanted to ask about her husband, but her head was starting to spin much harder, and her stomach seemed to be in her throat, so she did not trust herself to speak.  She just concentrated on dressing herself in her nightdress, and prayed for the ability to remain upright.

"There you are," Isëlmra's voice said kindly from behind Finduilas, and she came around front and turned the covers back.  Finduilas remained rooted to one spot, sure that if she even breathed she would collapse.  Her vision went blurry, the ache seemed to increase until it succeeded in blinding her, and in a terrible moment, she realized, somewhat disjointedly, that she was falling.  

She heard only two sounds as she slipped into unconsciousness: Isëlmra's voice calling her name and the sound of the chamber door opening.

Her eyes opened slowly, and she was aware of that fact that she still ached all over and that the sun was shining brightly in her eyes.  She was tired, and her head ached, but Finduilas nevertheless tried to remember what had happened.  Blinking a few more times, her eyes adjusted to the bright light of the midday sun, and she looked around to find Denethor asleep in a chair which had been pulled up right next to where she lay.  It slowly came back to her then; returning from Dol Amroth, how ill she had been feeling and how tired, Isëlmra helping her change, the sound of a door opening…

She swallowed.  It had probably been Denethor opening the door.  How worried he must have been!  And how ridiculous!  Finduilas had never fainted in her entire life, and she told herself half seriously that she had terrible timing.

She allowed herself a few minutes to watch Denethor as he slept.  He looked exhausted, and the weariness aged him. She wondered if he had sat there all night, then decided it was worthless wondering, for she knew he had.  She smiled and sat up a little so she could reach out and lay a hand on his knee.

He awoke instantly, looking at her with concern, his eyes wearing that wild look she had only seen once before, when he had returned to the city upon hearing of her troubles with Faramir's birth.  It held a taste of the same despair, the same fear that had chilled her so.  "Finduilas!" he said, and he sat forward and grabbed her hand.  "Are you all right?"

"I am better," she answered.  "My head aches, and I am tired, but it is nothing too serious, I do not think."  He clasped her hand more tightly between his own.

"I need to send for the healers," Denethor said.  "They told me you were in no danger, but wished to see you when you awoke."

"Darling, I hardly think…" she stopped speaking when she caught the look on his face.  "All right," she said and smiled, reflecting that she would bear anything to put Denethor at ease.  He nodded tersely and disappeared for only a moment.

When he came back, Finduilas smiled and made up her mind to try to change the subject.  Her headache was already fading and, though she still felt a vague malaise she was feeling much improved from the night before.  "How have you fared, Denethor?" she asked softly.

He was silent for a long moment, staring down at his hands as he sat down in the chair again.  "I have been well," he said.  "Though I missed you, and the boys."

"I missed you also.  Even my old home was not the same without you.  But the boys liked it there, and I think Boromir was much taken with my brother."  She chuckled.  "Although I am sure you shall hear all about it.  They are such dears."  She smiled, a smile that faded quickly.  "What have they been told?"

"Just that you are tired.  I did not wish to frighten them."

"Good," Finduilas said as her smile returned.  It was exactly what she would have wanted.  She sat back against the pillows and smiled at her husband.  "You know, Denethor," she commented.  "The bed is much more comfortable than that chair."  He looked up sharply at her, but she just smiled and patted the place beside her on the bed.  "Please?" she added.

            Denethor smiled and exchanged the chair for the bed, sitting back on the pillows.  With a contented sigh, Finduilas cuddled up against his side.  In response, Denethor wrapped his arm around her and they sat silently for several long moments.  Finduilas shut her eyes and just reveled in the feel of his arm around her, forcing her mind to calm itself.  She would not let herself wonder just how long it had been since they had just sat together, enjoying a companionable silence that she loved so well.  "I have missed this," she said finally, opening her eyes and shifting a little to look up at her husband.  

            "I have also," Denethor said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, something that Finduilas had always loved because it reminded her of her mother and made her feel safe and cherished.  "I did as you bid me," he then said suddenly.

            "What did I…"

            "Think," Denethor answered. "I was wrong, m'lady, and I beg your pardon.  Your happiness is everything to me, beloved, and I have taken you for granted.  Will you forgive me?"

            "Always," Finduilas whispered, and buried herself in his arms contentedly.  She was surprised he had admitted his fault.  Denethor was not one to do so.  She would repay him, she decided, for she knew how much an admission of that sort taxed her proud husband.  "Ah, Denethor," she said, "You make me so happy."  Then she looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

            "What?" Denethor demanded, his own amusement shining in his eyes as he looked down into her own.

            "I wish you to keep a promise you once made to me, my lord."

            "Which?" Denethor asked.  She pretended to pull away in mock anger.

            "Why, do you not remember our wedding night?"

            "I do, m'lady," he answered, "Very well."

            "Then you have to remember the promise you made."  She smiled suddenly and shifted so she was facing him completely.  "As I recall, your words were 'As many as my lady wishes, for as long as my lady wishes.' "  Her eyes sparkled merrily.  "Do you remember now?"

            "Indeed," he answered.  "And as always, I am at your command, if you wish…"

            "I do," she answered, and they shared a private smile as Denethor reached up and touched her cheek gently.

            "So beautiful," he said, as he leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss on her lips.  Her arms wrapped instinctively around his neck, and for a moment they both allowed themselves to be lost in each other's arms.

            However, after only a short moment, a knock on the door startled them both, and they pulled apart quickly as Denethor left the bed to open the door, giving Finduilas a moment to get settled.  When she had, he opened the door and Isëlmra stepped in, the Warden of the Houses of Healing at her side.

            The Warden was a short man, and somewhat stout, but he had cheery grey eyes that exuded knowledge and confidence which, when matched with his merry smile, made the sickest man feel better by his mere presence.  He came to Finduilas' side, his eyes sparkling merrily and his smile wide; when he spoke his voice was soft and gentle.  "It is good you are awake, m'lady," he said, bowing to her before reaching out and taking up her wrist to feel her pulse.  "How do you fare this morning?"

            "I am well," she answered.  "The headache I awoke with has already disappeared."

            "Very good," the man said.  "Now, can you explain to me exactly how you felt last night?" he laid her hand back down, seemingly satisfied with what he had felt there.  Finduilas went through and told him, making sure not to leave out any details, and tried to keep one eye on the warden and the other on her husband, who was looking more worried than ever now that she was explaining.

            The warden nodded, thinking hard as she told him everything, and when she had finished, he pondered a moment and then rose to his feet.  "I think there is no cause to worry, m'lady," he said, making sure his gaze caught Denethor's as well as he said it.  "This is most likely a singular occurrence, brought on by weariness and the stress of travel.  I do not believe it shall happen again.  Nevertheless, I am at your service, m'lady, should you again feel ill."

            "I thank you for your time and reassurance," Finduilas answered.  The man bowed, and Isëlmra smiled at her lady and led the warden from the room.  Finduilas smiled at Denethor, glad to see the relief on his face as she rose from bed.  He took her hand with a smile and drew her close, and began to waltz with her around the room as she laughed.  "You've improved," she commented, "So much that I swear you've been practicing without me.  Who is she, then?" she teased.

            "When I expressed my desire to surprise you with improvement, Isëlmra was all too open to helping me do so," he admitted, his eyes twinkling merrily at her.

            "Well I am quite surprised, and glad I do not need to be jealous," she said lightly. "I do not wish to compete with any younger women."

            "Never," he told her, and he sounded so serious that Finduilas kissed him gently on the cheek, even though they were still dancing, and spoke again, softening her voice.

            "Dear heart, I know that and I trust you.  That is why I can tease you about it, though I know your tendency towards loving women younger than yourself."

            "Well I should think at least one of us benefited from that tendency," he answered.

            "Too true," she agreed, as she slowed and stopped their impromptu dance.  "But now, have you seen your sons?"

            "Not yet, m'lady," he answered, bowing to her as was proper at the end of a dance.

            "Then I think you had best let me dress so that we may go see them, for I am not going to let you out of my sight one moment today, even for our sons.  I have missed you so," she said, as she went to the wardrobe and opened it, regarding the contents critically.  However, as she made her selection, and moved to withdraw the chosen garment, she felt Denethor's arms wrap around her waist from behind.

            "You do not wish to disturb the boys' lessons do you?" he asked, lifting her hair and pressing a kiss to the back of her neck as he pulled her closer.

            "The boys'?" she asked.

            "I told Boromir's tutor that Faramir may go along and listen today, and may stay while Boromir does his work if he is quiet and does not disturb his brother's studies."

            "He'll love that," Finduilas said, her voice delighted.

            "It is nearly time for him to start his own studies.  The boy does have a mind for it."

            "Oh I wish you'd let him, Denethor," Finduilas said.  "Even if it were just an hour or so a day."

            "Perhaps I will," Denethor said with a smile, and Finduilas turned and looked into his eyes and read there that it would be permitted.  Her smile widened and she kissed Denethor thankfully, feeling as if she had found her husband again, instead of the Steward of Gondor.  Quite joyful, she allowed him to distract her, feeling in her heart that the days to come would be the happiest of her life.

**Author's Note:  Thanks for reading.  :-D  This fanfic went through several major revisions, but I think this is going to be the final draft.  It has a weird feel to me, somehow, and as was pointed out to me, it can't stand on its own very well.  Still, I hope it is enjoyable, for I put a lot of agony into this one, and if it isn't, it would make me very sad.  On a side note, thank you all for reading and for your reviews.  I haven't replied to any of them, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate them.  I really do.  Until next time!   -Nat ******


	6. All Good Things

_**All Good Things**_

_**By**_

_**Stargazer Nataku**_

Denethor closed and folded the last letter confirming the invitation to the Great Council that was to be held in Minas Tirith in the spring. Lords from all parts of Gondor were coming, as they did every seven years, to discuss matters both large and small concerning their lands and the greater good of all Gondor. Usually, Denethor looked forward to these meetings and always had; this year, however, it was different. The winter had been long and made difficult by many things. The snows had been worse than usual, creating problems throughout the country; the Council itself needed to be planned for, creating more work to fall on his shoulders; and worst of all, Faramir had caught a cold that had settled in his lungs and his mother, in nursing him, had become sicker than her son. For over a week, Denethor had watched and worried, lest he lose either his wife or son, but in the end both passed through the danger. Though they were still weak, the dark worried nights he had thought them dying now seemed to fade into memory as he concentrated on remaining cheerful for the sake of the invalids.

Denethor felt a relieved smile appear on his face as finished putting his papers away, checking the light outdoors as he did so. It was late afternoon and the pale winter sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting pale washed out light over the city. Finduilas would be waiting for him to come, and so he left his office for their private chambers.

When he arrived there, she was sitting in her chair before the fire with Faramir in her lap, and they were both wrapped in several layers of blankets. Faramir was, with all the resilience of youth, progressing rapidly back to health, chafing against the concern of adults that made him sit quietly when he wanted to run and play. Now, however, he was sitting calmly in his mother's lap as she told him one of the old stories. In contrast to her son, whose cheeks were regaining color and fullness, Finduilas remained very pale and thin. She did everything the healers advised without complaint, but visible improvement was slow in coming and even Denethor knew enough to recognize that his wife was not getting well as fast as she ought.

Still, he mused as he watched them, the happiness in her face and posture as she cuddled with their son was unmistakable, as well as the pride in her eyes as she looked to Boromir, cast on the rug before the fire, eating an apple and reading a rather thick volume that Denethor recognized as a history of Gondor that he had studied as a boy. They all heard the door click shut behind him, and Boromir jumped to his feet, book and apple forgotten, while the invalids both turned to smile at him.

He smiled back and crossed the room to sit in his own chair across from his wife's. The soft turning of the pages and the crunch of Boromir eating his apple was once again accompanied his wife's soft voice as she continued the story for Faramir, and Denethor found himself smiling as he removed his boots and stretched his feet towards the warmth of the fire.

They sat that way for several long minutes before Finduilas finished her tale. When her voice fell silent, Boromir's book closed, the apple core was flung into the fire, and he sat up on the rug. "Ready to go with Boromir, darling?" Finduilas asked Faramir. He nodded and reached his hands out for his brother. "You're too big to carry, Faramir," Finduilas began, but Boromir come to his mother and reached out for his little brother.

"No he isn't, Mother," Boromir said as he picked up his little brother, blanket and all. Faramir wrapped his arms around Boromir's neck and laid his head on his older brother's shoulder. Faramir mumbled something to his brother that was muffled in Boromir's shoulder; Boromir laughed and did not respond, but smiled at his father and mother.

"Thank you, Boromir," Finduilas said, smiling back at her son as Boromir carried his little brother from the room so they could get ready for dinner. The door shut with a soft click behind them, and Denethor's gaze fell on his wife. She moved a little in her chair, and she shifted the blanket to pull it more closely around her.

"Are you cold?" Denethor asked, concerned. She turned to him with a smile.

"No, I'm not. There is no need to be concerned," she said as her smile flashed across her face. He felt himself smiling back, a smile born of relief at the familiar sparkle that appeared in her eyes that had been absent since she had fallen ill. "And before you ask," she continued, "I am feeling all right."

"Did the Warden come to see you today?" Denethor asked. It was barely noticeable, but Denethor knew his wife well enough to see the slight hesitation and apprehension that crossed her face in the instant before she spoke.

"He did," she began, but did not seem ready to offer any more information.

"And?" Denethor prompted.

"Faramir is nearly completely well," Finduilas began. "The Warden said all restrictions can be taken from him by the end of the week, if he continues as he is. As for me," Finduilas paused again. "Well, he said that he is glad to see that I have improved, although he wishes that I were improving more quickly."

"Did he think it was something to be concerned about?"

"I do not think so. From what he said, it seemed clear to me that sometimes this happens, and that I must be patient."

"You seem tired," Denethor next observed.

"I am," she answered.

"The boys did not wear you out, did they?" Denethor asked sharply.

"Oh, no!" Finduilas insisted. "They do me good. Boromir has been such a help and comfort to be, and wonderful with his brother. Oh, Denethor, they are such good boys. I am so proud of them, aren't you?" Denethor rose to his feet and came over to his wife, kneeling on the rug before her as he smiled.

"Indeed I am." She smiled, and reached out to him, allowing him to wrap her small hand in his own. He was a little concerned about how cold her skin was, but as he opened his mouth to ask she interrupted him before he could speak.

"How are the plans for the Council?" He smiled at her; she knew him too well to allow him to continue questioning her on her health. He knew that she thought he worried too much over her.

"I received the last confirmation today," Denethor told her. "Everyone is prepared to arrive the first of April."

"So soon? That's scarcely more than two weeks!"

"I know," Denethor answered. "There is much to do, I fear. I will be very busy, and for that I apologize in advance, m'lady." He kissed her hand.

"I'll have my own part to play, my love," Finduilas answered calmly.

"Not if you are not well, Finduilas."

"I am fine," she assured him again, "Please do not waste your worry on me."

"It is hardly a waste…" Denethor said, just as there was a knock on the door. "Enter," he called, and his wife's former nurse entered. Isëlmra had gotten greyer and stouter in the many years since she had come to Minas Tirith, but her eyes were still grey, kindly, and above all else devoted whenever she looked upon her Lady. "Excuse my interruption," she said with a slight curtsey, "But its time for your medicine, m'lady, dear."

"All right," Finduilas agreed, and Isëlmra came over and handed her the goblet with the medicinal brew in it. Finduilas took a deep breath and drank it all at once; pulling it away from her mouth she looked rather green and gave a bit of a cough. "It tastes terrible," she admitted to her husband. "If he were not so concerned about me I would suspect the Warden of attempting to poison me." She gave a little laugh as Isëlmra took the goblet back. "Has Faramir had his?"

"Yes, indeed, m'lady," Isëlmra said, "Although it took all my skill and Boromir's pleading to accomplish it."

"I can see why," Finduilas said with a laugh. "The poor dear."

"Its good for him," Denethor told his wife.

"I know," Finduilas answered, "But that does not make it taste any better." Denethor could not argue with this, knowing only too well how badly the healing potions sometimes tasted. "Thank you, Isëlmra."

"It is my pleasure, m'lady." She curtsied. "M'lord," she said, before going back out of the room. Denethor's eyes went back to his wife.

"Your father is coming to the council," he added, "And he is bringing your mother. I received word today."

Finduilas' eyes lit up, and Denethor found himself smiling again. "I am so glad," she said. "I had hoped they would," she added as her gaze fell to her lap, and Denethor detected a hint of sadness in her beautiful, though sunken into her too thin face, eyes.

Denethor reached out to her and took her hand. "What's the matter?" he asked. She was silent for a long moment, staring into the fire, her face pale in the shadows of the light dancing across her face. "I am just reflecting," Finduilas said, "That my father is no longer as young as he once was. He is much changed since you last saw him, twelve years ago. I fear that when he leaves the city after the Council, I shall never see him again." She squeezed Denethor's hand more tightly in her own. "Since I returned from Dol Amroth in the fall, I have not been able to ignore the fact that he is now old, and that soon, we shall be parted. Before my visit there, I could remember things as they were, and fool myself awhile that they were yet the same. But that is not true, and while deep in my heart I knew this, I cannot quite acclimate myself to the knowledge."

"I know well the pain of that loss," Denethor said, placing a hand onto her blanket-covered knee, trying to let her know that she understood that she was not alone.

"I know," she said, "And I am sorry you have borne it." Her green eyes met his with the compassion she always gave him, and they seemed to shimmer with unshed tears.

"Do not cry, m'lady," Denethor asked her gently, and before he knew it he had extended his hand to her. She abandoned her blanket and her own chair and sat herself on his lap, resting her head against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. Another rush of worry jolted through him over how light she was; she scarcely weighed anything at all it seemed, not that she had ever been heavy.

"Do you remember the first time you comforted me like this?" Finduilas asked softly.

"Of course I do," he answered, holding her a little more tightly. "It was in Dol Amroth, twelve years ago. Your brother was injured, and I found you in the garden, weeping."

"I still remember," Finduilas said softly, "The moon was out, there was the smell of the roses and the sea, and I thought for sure that everything was lost. Then you found me there, and when I saw you…it was as if everything I needed was standing in front of me." She laughed then, though her eyes were still sparkling with tears. "I'm afraid I was quite unladylike that evening wasn't I?"

"Indeed you were," Denethor said with a return laugh. "But I liked it."

"You would," Finduilas said, and her voice was teasing, her laughter lighter, with fewer tears and more merriment in it. She suddenly leaned over and, shifting so her arms were thrown around him, kissed him soundly. "That was not lady-like either, I fear," she commented when they separated.

"Nay," Denethor answered, somewhat breathless, "But I liked it." Finduilas laughed then, and all the traces of tears were gone from her eyes.

"I think you did," she commented mischievously, and was leaning forward to kiss him again when there was a knock on the door. "Ignore it," she whispered.

"What if it's our sons?" he asked.

"They will not come in unless we say so," she answered.

"Finduilas, maybe we ought to wait."

"Why?" she asked.

"You are not well yet."

"Well enough," she answered, pulling away a little.

"I do not wish to hurt you." The knock sounded again. "What?" Denethor called out, the irritation coming out in his voice.

"Dinner, milord," the answer came, muffled by the door. Finduilas sighed as Denethor helped her gently to her feet and then rose himself.

"In a moment!" he called out, and then, saying softly to Finduilas, "Perhaps it is better this way," he said softly to her, his hand seeking the soft, warm spot on the side of her neck, underneath her thick masses of hair. She looked up at him, her green eyes showing disappointment, the smile she kept only for him playing across her lips.

"There is always later, Denethor," she answered softly, her hands sliding up his arms and down his chest, coming at last to rest on his hips as she moved gracefully onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to Denethor's own.

When she pulled away, Denethor graced her with a gentle smile, and his hand strayed from the side of her neck to her own, clasping it gently. "You are insistent, milady," he commented gently.

"I will not be denied, milord," she said. "You promised, many years ago, and I mean to hold you to your word. You are, after all, a man of honor, or so you have said."

"I could never deny you anything, Finduilas."

"I know," she answered, just as another knock came on the door.

"Mama, Papa!" they heard through the door, "I'm hungry!"

"Hush, Faramir!" came his brother's answering voice. Finduilas laughed and pulled away from her husband, putting a proper amount of distance between them.

"You had best guard your dignity, dearest," she told him slyly, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Enter!" she then called out.

Denethor sat self-consciously, giving her an exasperated smile as their sons re-entered the room just before the servants bearing their dinner.

The next days passed quickly for Denethor as the day of the arrival of the other lords drew near. The night before, he finished the last of the preparations late in the afternoon and sat for a moment, relieved he had finished, before rising and going back to their chambers.

He was surprised to find Finduilas still awake, wrapped in a blanket in her chair before the roaring fire, reading. "What are you still doing awake?" he asked, as he shed his boots and came to kiss her gently on the forehead.

"I did not wish to sleep yet," she answered, smiling at him as he regarded her critically. She was still pale, but the alertness had come back to her beautiful green eyes and the lines in her face were no longer pronounced.

"You seem as if you feel well," he commented.

"I do," she answered. "Perfectly well to help you greet our guests tomorrow."

"I am glad to hear it," Denethor answered, taking her hand in his own and squeezing it gently. "You are always such a help to me, Finduilas."

"I do my best," she answered.

'I know," he answered. "But, dearest, I fear I must ask you to promise me one thing, ere tomorrow comes."

"Anything, dearest."

"If you begin to feel ill again, please do not hesitate to step away from your duties. If…"

"Denethor," she interrupted him, "I am fine. I shall not need to shirk my duties because I am unwell."

"Promise me, Finduilas."

"I promise. If I become very ill again, I shall not hesitate."

"You ease my mind," Denethor answered her. "I thank you." Finduilas nodded and rose to her feet, stepping over to where he still stood.

"The promise is unnecessary," she informed him, as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "I am well." Her eyes sparkled mischievously at him, and Denethor bent down to kiss her soundly.

"We both know the importance of keeping promises," Denethor told her when he pulled away, "As many as my lady wishes, for as long as my lady wishes."

"I shall never stop wishing," Finduilas answered, touching his face gently with her fingertips before she kissed him again. "Come to bed, dearest," she then whispered to him, her hand trailing from his cheek down to his hand.

This time, Denethor did not protest.

Dawn had not yet come when Denethor awoke the next morning. He laid still for a moment, giving himself the luxury of watching his wife sleep, her head pillowed gently on his shoulder, a slight smile playing across her face. Her dark hair was sleep tousled, and in the slight light from the dying fire and the coming dawn, it was easy to ignore how thin and pale her face still was.

_So beautiful,_ he thought to himself, gently brushing several strands of her dark hair away from her face, as a rush of contentment washed over him. She stirred a little as he did so, shifting closer to him, a hand coming up to rest on his chest, the slight smile on her face becoming more noticeable.

He sighed mentally, feeling a strong desire to remain where he was until she awoke but knowing at the same time that there was too much to prepare to do so. Even now, he knew, last minute preparations were being made, and he had several things to take care of before he began to welcome his guests.

Carefully so as not to wake her, Denethor extricated himself from Finduilas' arms and dressed quickly in the dim light of the coming dawn. There would be, he told himself, ample time after the council to have mornings such as this. With one quick glance to his wife still curled up under the covers, Denethor left the room.

Finally, everything was ready. Denethor stood before the Steward's Chair in the Tower Hall waiting, dressed in his best, satisfied that everything would now happen as he had expected. The last piece, their guests, would soon begin to arrive, for it was nearly mid-morning, and all the guests had confirmed they would arrive in time for the feast that evening.

He looked down at the Steward's chair and ran his fingers along the cool, polished stone, and his thoughts strayed back to the last Great Council they had held, seven years earlier. His father had been Steward then, Boromir had been but two years old, and Faramir had not even been thought of. So much had changed in but a short time.

Soft footfalls crossing the stone floor interrupted his musings, and he turned to see Finduilas coming towards him across the hall. She was dressed in her best gown, her abundant hair done up into a complicated knot on the back of her head, but despite all her restrictive finery, she moved towards him with the grace of a queen. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, the regal air disappearing as she did so, and he noted then that she was wearing the necklace that had been his wedding present to her.

"You look beautiful, Finduilas," he said as she came to his side, standing a small distance before him.

"Thank you," she answered, a slight blush appearing on her cheeks. "Is everything in order?"

"Yes," he answered. "We merely await our guests."

"That is what I came to tell you," Finduilas said, and her smile widened.  
"The first ships have docked at the landings of Harlond. My father and mother, as well as Lord Golasgil of Anfalas and his wife, will soon be here."

"Where are our sons?"

"Isëlmra is keeping Boromir and Faramir occupied until the feast this evening. I did not think it would be wise to have them here all day. Boromir could be patient, but if he came then Faramir would wish to as well, and he is far too young to be here."

"That is a wise choice." Denethor smiled at her, and was about to speak again when the doors to the hall swung wide and a guard entered. He bowed.

"My lord, Lord Adrahil and Lord Golasgil have arrived."

"Bring them in," Denethor ordered, turning to face the doorway, casting a quick glance out of the corner of his eye to his wife. As usual, he was amazed at the change that came across her. His joyous, lighthearted wife had assumed, with a change in posture and the way she held her head, a distant, queenly bearing that spoke of confidence and an innate ability to be a leader of men.

The sound of footsteps brought his gaze forward. Flanked by a pair of guards, Adrahil and Golasgil were walking the length of the hall towards where the Steward and his wife stood, their own wives following a pace behind. When they were a few paces before the Steward, all four stopped and bowed low. "My Lord Denethor," Golasgil said in his deep, rumbling bass voice, "It is our honor to be here."

"And my honor to welcome you to Minas Tirith," Denethor answered, using the age old formula that so many of his predecessors had followed.

"Lady Finduilas," Golasgil's wife, the Lady Aerin, said softly, "I thank you for your kind welcome."

"It is my pleasure to give it," Finduilas answered, inclining her head slightly. "It has been too long since you last came." She cast a glance from Golasgil to Aerin, and then to her own parents. "The journey here from your cities is long, and you are undoubtedly tired. You have arrived early, and there is much time to rest if you so wish it."

"I thank you, my lady," Golasgil told her, "It will be most welcome for my wife and I."

"Of course," Finduilas answered, and she cast a glance at her husband. Denethor caught the look and with a motion of his hand summoned a page.

"Please escort Lord Golasgil and his lady to their chambers."

"M'lord," the young man said with a bow to Denethor, "This way, m'lord, m'lady," he said, again making another motion as he lead the Lord and Lady of Anfalas to their chambers.

When they had departed, Finduilas' stiff demeanor melted, and all guise of sternness disappeared as a huge smile crossed her face and she stepped forward to embrace her father and mother. Denethor stood back a moment as they greeted one another, content to once again see Finduilas' face looking flushed and healthy, her eyes shining. Undoubtedly, his wife had been right; she was ill no longer.

The next days and weeks passed in a whirlwind of activity seldom matched, even in the White City. One day ran into another as alliances were reaffirmed, new trade agreements drawn up and signed, and military issues were discussed far into the night. Denethor reveled in the work, relieved from his worry about his wife and son, and led the discussions and assemblies as one born for the position.

It was often late when he returned to their quarters as it had been in the past, and he saw his wife only rarely during the daytime when official functions required both of their presences. She would always take a moment to catch his eyes and the smile she gave only to him would quickly grace her face before disappearing into the queenly mask she always wore when she was faced with official duties.

When he had time, late in the night, lying by his sleeping wife's side, he admitted to himself how trying the entire thing was, not for the work they were doing, but for the time he had to spend away from his wife and sons. He had seen Boromir and Faramir only at mealtimes when all were gathered together in the large banquet hall. Even as he spoke to the other Lords, he would watch them sitting between their mother and grandmother, laughing and cheerfully vying for the attentions of the two women on either side before finally being excused from the table to play with the other children who had come to the city with their parents. After they had left, he would enjoy watching the merry face of his wife as she spoke with her mother and the other women.

At long last, however, it was ended. Everything had been discussed and agreed upon, the alliances holding the country together were renewed and blessed, and it was time to celebrate another seven years of victory in war and success in all else. The final banquet had been in the planning stages for many months so that when the day finally came all would be prepared in a show of the splendor Gondor and her Steward could offer.

For the first time in a month, Denethor returned to their chambers in the late afternoon so he could change for the feast. The room was empty, and as he began to change he wondered where his wife was. The dress she was to wear that evening was already laid out upon the bed, ready for its wearer, and her jewelry was set neatly out on her dressing table, yet his wife was nowhere to be found.

As he finished dressing himself, the door opened and she entered. Her hair had already been dressed, by Isëlmra no doubt, and she was smiling. She came to his side and he welcomed her with a kiss. "I was beginning to wonder where you had gone," he commented as he went to sit down at the small table in their quarters to wait for her to be ready.

"I had to see to the boys," Finduilas answered him, as her nimble fingers began to undo the lacings on her dress. "It is hard to tell which is more excited." She laughed and paused a moment in the work of undoing the ties. "They are such dear boys…." Denethor, who had been pouring himself a glass of water from the decanter there on the table, looked up at her last statement, for there had been something in her voice that he had not quite recognized.

"Is something the matter, Finduilas?" he asked her, and she quickly turned to him with a smile on her face.

"No, my love," she answered, and there was a moment's pause before she spoke again, "They are just growing up so quickly, that's all." She turned and gave him a hesitant smile. "But of course I'm being foolish," she said. "I know they can't stay young forever. She finished removing her dress and carefully brought the second over her hairstyle, draping it properly around her. Denethor rose to his feet and came over, helping her draw the bodice of the dress up over her, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck as he did so. He wasn't sure what to say, so he just gently allowed his hands to run over her soft skin as he helped her with the dress.

From behind he watched as a tender smile spread across her face and she caught one of his hands in her own, so much smaller and thinner than his. "You are too good to me," she said softly, and her voice was almost tinged with a faint hint of regret.

"Nothing is too good for you," he answered as he finished rearranging the dress on her shoulders and began to tighten the laces up the back. "I would give you the world if I could."

"I don't want the world," Finduilas responded. "I'm happy in my little corner of it." She twisted in his arms, feeling he had finished with the laces, and her arms wrapped around him. Instinctively, his own arms wrapped around her and they stood for a long moment, her head pillowed on his chest, his head resting on her own. "I love you, Denethor," she said softly. "Please, never doubt that."

"Why do you ask that?" he asked, "Finduilas, I never have doubted that and I never will."

"I just want to be sure," she answered, as she pulled away slightly. "I have to finish getting ready," she said, "Or we are going to be late for our own feast."

Denethor reluctantly released her even as she returned a smile for his concerned look. She walked over to her dressing table and picked up the necklace from it, holding up the silver swan pendant so that it caught the light. "It's still as beautiful as the day you gave it to me," she said, as her nimble fingers loosened the catch and hung the pendant around her neck.

"As is the wearer," Denethor added, and she turned to him with a small smile, shaking her head gently.

"Still the flatterer, even after so many years," she said. "I am glad I will have your company at dinner this evening."

"As am I. I have been envious of you these last few weeks, enjoying yourself while I was discussing business every moment of every day. Tonight, we can enjoy ourselves together, the way it was meant to be." Denethor bent down to kiss his wife again and then offered her his arm. She took it with a restrained smile, and they left the room together, heading down the hall. "Where are the boys?" Denethor asked.

"With my mother," Finduilas answered. "She offered to finish getting them ready so I would have time to dress. They will meet us there."

"I should have known that between you and your mother everything would be taken care of," Denethor said, smiling down at her, hoping she would meet his gaze, but his wife instead stared ahead, her gaze cast slightly downward to the floor. It was so out of character for his usually vivacious wife that Denethor opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong. Yet at that precise moment, there was the sound of small feet on the stone floor and Faramir came into view, dressed in his best clothes, being chased by his brother who was also in his best.

"Mama!" Faramir cried out, racing over to hide himself protectively behind his mother, grasping her skirts in his small hands. Once safe in the shelter of his mother's shadow, he peered out from around her and teasingly stuck his tongue out at his older brother. With a grin, Boromir came over and ruffled Faramir's already mussed hair.

"I'll be able to catch you next time, little brother," he promised, casting a wink up towards his mother which made it quite clear that Boromir had allowed his little brother to get away. Finduilas laughed then, and her entire face was transformed.

"Now, now my boys," she said jovially, as she released her hold on Denethor's arm to kneel before them, "Grandmother has you dressed so nicely, and it would be a shame to get your clothes all wrinkled before I can show all the lords and ladies of Gondor what handsome sons I have." She straightened Boromir's tunic and then, turning to Faramir, brushed her hands over his unruly hair and convinced the tangled locks to lie flat. "There now." She smiled at both of them, taking one of their hands in each of hers. "There will be plenty of time to play later, after dinner, darlings. I need you to act as grown-up as possible, or it will be a long time before you can come back to a party like this. Can you do that for mother, darlings?"

Boromir straightened but did not say anything, but Denethor could see that his son had taken his mother's words to heart. He felt a rush of paternal pride as he regarded his firstborn, and with a flash of vision suddenly saw a burly young man in the place of his nine-year-old son, dressed in full armor, a bloodstained bandage tied around his upper arm. Nevertheless, the young man was smiling, pushing his dark hair aside as he sheathed his sword and reached out for someone that Denethor could not see. Then, the image faded, and Boromir was a boy again, tall for his age, his countenance serious as he reached out to take his brother's hand so they could enter the hall, mimicking the action of the vision Denethor had seen.

Turning from his sons, he extended a hand to his wife with a smile. She placed her small hand in his own with a grateful look in her green eyes an allowed him to pull her to her feet. As she straightened an almost imperceptible look of discomfort crossed over her face, a brief glimpse of pain that many would never have marked but that Denethor, attuned as he was to his wife's every move, could not fail to miss. "Are you all right?" he asked her quietly, the concern in his voice readily apparent.

"I am fine," his wife answered, though there was a slight catch in her voice that suggested lingering discomfort. "Kneeling on the stones pained my knees a little," she offered by way of an explanation. "I shall be fine in a moment."

Denethor looked at her for a long moment before he cast a glance at their sons to be sure they were not paying attention. Boromir was occupying himself with Faramir's collar, and both boys were talking to each other and completely ignoring their parents. It was only then that he turned back to his wife and, reaching out to take her hand, spoke again. "Finduilas," he said quietly, wondering how was the best way to word what he was going to say, "What is the matter?"

"I have already told you, Denethor," Finduilas answered, without meeting his gaze, "I am all right." Denethor reached out and took her chin gently in his hand, turning her head so she was forced to face him.

"Finduilas," he said, and his voice held a strange mixture of worry and sternness. However, before he could say another word, she interrupted.

"Denethor," she said, "We must go. Our guests are waiting." He released her chin, reading her unwillingness to speak on the matter further in her eyes, and took her arm, deciding to lay the matter to rest until they were in private.

When the family entered the room, all the guests rose to their feet as Denethor sought out his seat, followed closely by Finduilas and his sons. Once they were standing before their chairs behind the head table, Denethor turned and, without seating himself, raised his arms in a gesture of welcoming. "Once again, my friends, old and new, I invite you to join us at our table. I thank you for traveling all this way to be our guests, and I pray that you will find your way back again soon. Tonight, however, let us not think on tomorrow's parting. Tonight, let us celebrate work well done, and friendships renewed!" Denethor picked up his glass of wine and raised it above his head. "To Gondor!" he said, and the sentiment was echoed in a chorus of voices around the room before all took their seats and the feasting began.

Denethor was pleased at the perfection that had been attained. The food was plentiful and exceptional, spanning several courses and all the cuisines of the different regions of Gondor. There was laughter, and merry chatter, and soft strains of music from the background, creating a festive atmosphere as everyone celebrated the work that had been accomplished and the ties that had been reforged.

Through all the merriment, however, Denethor sensed an undercurrent of tension emanating from those closest to him. On his left, Finduilas laughed and smiled but there was something underneath her happiness that marred it somehow, something that he could not yet identify but which he was sure had been tied to their conversation before the feast had started. He also noted that, farther down the table, Eärwen was strangely silent, and occasionally looked to her smiling daughter with a critical eye. It was so unlike his mother-in-law that he could not help but feel a twinge of worry, though it seemed baseless to him. Finduilas surely would have told him if something was the matter. In the eleven years since their marriage, they had never kept secrets from each other.

With sudden clarity, a memory from years before pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, even as he continued to discuss the well-being of Lebennin with that region's Lord, that Finduilas would and had lied to him to keep him from worrying about her own well being. Thoughts of entering their chambers a snowy winter's night nine years previously came unbidden to his mind, hearing Isëlmra and his beloved speaking of healers and his wife's own fear. He remembered how young his wife had seemed to him then, in those months when they had awaited Boromir's birth in blissful anticipation.

Was this, then, his wife's secret? Were they to have another child, perhaps even the daughter he knew she wished for? It worried him, especially after the circumstances surrounding Faramir's birth had nearly torn her from him and, with another moment of clarity, he decided that she was right to have not told him. _I have become a worrier in my old age,_ Denethor chided himself, _and my beloved wife knows it!_ He nodded to the other Lord's comment, and then forced the thoughts of Finduilas away from his mind. If there was truly a need to worry, Finduilas would have never hidden it from him.

Reassured by that final thought and seeing that the feasting had ended, Denethor turned to lean close to his wife, a small smile on his face and spoke to her softly. "Perhaps we should have the dancing then, m'lady. It has been many months since I had the privilege."

She turned to him and returned his smile. "I should like that very much, m'lord," he said, reaching to him and taking his hand under the table with a soft squeeze. "It has indeed been too long." He agreed with a nod and rose to his feet again and called out for the musicians to get ready for the dancing, and called the other entertainers from where they had been waiting. Boromir and Faramir were instantly on their feet, along with many of the other children in attendance, headed towards a pair of jugglers who set themselves up in the corner.

Denethor himself offered his arm to his wife and together they took the dance floor, for it was fitting that the hosts be the first to begin the dance. The music had already started when Denethor put his arm around her waist and took her hand in his own to begin. They had started with a fairly simple, rather slow dance, and together they moved gracefully across the floor. As he always did when he was forced to take this position of first on the floor, Denethor keenly felt the eyes of all assembled on them as they gracefully turned and waltzed across the floor. "You have never liked this, my poor beloved," Finduilas said with a soft laugh, her words only for him.

"Nay," he answered, "Not when it is only you and I and all eyes are upon us." It did not, he reflected as he answered her, ever affect his wife. She danced as well as ever, moving as gracefully as a queen, everything from the lithe movements of her feet to the regal tilt of her head making her seem as though she were one of the lofty Valar themselves.

Now there were a few more couples on the floor, and Denethor relaxed slightly and allowed himself to enjoy the dance. "In fact," he added after they had waltzed for several moments in silence, "Before I had such a pleasing partner, I never enjoyed dancing at all." A slight blush only increased her beauty as the compliment registered with his wife. "If I am not the envy of every man in this hall, then I should be."

"You flatter me," she answered. "I should think that I would be the one envied, to have such a man as you to dance with. But let us not argue. I am sure there is plenty of envy for both of us, is there not?" She laughed then, executing a turn with grace and precision even as he misstepped slightly.

"Be gentle on an old man," he teased her as he adjusted to his error as best he could.

"You are hardly old," Finduilas said suddenly, and her voice had an edge to it that indicated she was no longer teasing. In surprise, he paused in his dance even as the music ended, and other laughing couples broke apart. Denethor did not release his wife.

"Finduilas?" he asked as she turned her face away from him. "Finduilas, look at me. Do not be angry…It was all in jest, nothing more." That had always before been a source of jesting between them, ever since they day they had been betrothed in the seaside gardens of Dol Amroth.

"You are not old," she said again, her voice firm. "Please, Denethor, do not say so."

"All right," he answered cautiously, "I will not, if it troubles you so. But can you tell me why such a jest bothers you now when it did not before?" Finduilas had opened her mouth to make her own reply when a hand fell upon her shoulder and she pulled away to face her elderly father, who was smiling down at her gently.

"If I may be so bold as to interrupt," Prince Adrahil said, "but I was wondering if I could have a dance with my daughter."

"Of course," Denethor answered, releasing Finduilas completely. As he turned to find his own seat, worry flooding through him anew, he kept his eyes on her as she danced in her father's arms.

"Your wife is still quite beautiful," the man to his side said.

He turned to look at Lord Elatan, the Lord of the seafaring people of Ethir Anduin. He was older than Denethor himself was, but was still hale due to a lifetime of seafaring. "Thank you," Denethor answered.

"However, the Lady seems paler than I remember her being," he commented. "Has she been ill?"

"She was ill for awhile this spring," Denethor answered. "But that seems to have passed now, thank Eru."

"I am thankful to hear it," he said. "It would be a great loss indeed, for you and for Gondor."

"Yes," Denethor answered. "It would be."

"If I may be so bold, m'lord…" Elatan said, "I wish to discuss a problem with you, in private if I may."

"Is it something so private it cannot be said for the others?" Denethor asked, turning to the man.

"Yes, I am afraid that it is."

"Very well," he said. "Tonight, after the feast is ended, come to my office. We will speak then."

"Thank you, my lord." Elatan bowed and stepped away.

Several hours later, Denethor finished a dance with his wife and then, returning to his place, clinked the side of his glass to catch the company's attention. The children who had been present were long since gone, the remaining food and wine were running low, and the hour was very late. Denethor himself was weary; he had danced with many of the ladies out of politeness, just as Finduilas had traded partners throughout the night. "One last dance!" Denethor called out over the general din of the merrymaking. "I thank you all!"

Heading back out onto the floor, he took his wife's hand, and they began to dance one last time. "Are you weary?" he asked her.

"Yes," she responded simply, "Very much so. It is late."

"Indeed." A few more steps passed in silence, when suddenly his wife faltered in her steps as though her legs had ceased to obey her and her face went white. Denethor managed to hold her up, though she had gone limp as a doll in his arms, her face slack as she trembled slightly in his arms.

Terror, the like of which Denethor had rarely felt, struck through him, along with a searing pain in his chest, as though an orcish sword had found its mark straight through his heart. The focus of the room narrowed until it was just her; it was as though the rest of the nobles and their ladies did not and had never existed.

Time itself seemed to slow as he laid her down on the cold floor, calling her name in vain as she lay senseless in his arms, his entire mind and soul begging her to open her eyes, to stop the tremors that were shuddering through her thin body. Vaguely, as though from a distance, he heard voices calling out orders; demanding healers and ushering the other guests out of the room, but Denethor did not heed them. Suddenly, after many minutes that seemed as long as hours, there was a hand on Denethor's shoulder, and for the first time since she had collapsed his gaze left her and fell on the face of his father-in-law. Turning his head the other direction, he saw the Warden of the Houses of Healing kneeling on the other side of his wife. "Lay her down," Adrahil was saying, but Denethor was loath to let her go. "Lay her down," the older man said again, and this time Denethor, his whole being suddenly numb, complied, watching from his knees as the warden did his work, knowing that a pace behind him Adrahil and Eärwen were waiting just as he was.

After an eternity of minutes, the Warden looked to the Steward and his face was grave. "I cannot lie to you my lord. The Lady is very ill. We must get her to bed quickly."

Denethor nodded and, waving away a servant who was hovering near to help, picked up his wife himself. Without looking about him, he carefully carried her to their chambers.

One he had laid his wife on their bed, Eärwen had, with a gentle hand, led him to the hallway and bid him stay there in a quiet but unyielding voice. Not knowing what else to do, Denethor had sat down on the bench in the hallway, vaguely noticing it was the same place where, years ago, Imrahil had sat and amusedly watched his brother-in-law pace the halls, waiting anxiously through the long hours where Finduilas had labored to bring Boromir into the world.

Now, however, Denethor knew he could not pace. It was as if all the energy he had felt had not been drained away, leaving nothing but emptiness and a terrified pain in its place. Waiting now was filled with dread as his mind now began to connect pieces of things she had said to him with things she had done, and it all seemed to point to the very moment when she had collapsed in his arms.

He was so involved in his thoughts he only dimly noted Adrahil's arrival, though the man put a hesitant hand on his son-in-law's shoulder for the briefest of moments. He noted but did not note the worry etched deeply in the older man's face as he took a position standing beside the bench, but did not sit. Everything was wrapped up in the thoughts of his wife, the way she had gone limp in his arms, her pained face as she lay on the floor trembling in his arms. It was as if the image had burned itself into his thoughts so there was no escaping it, and his heart burned with the pain of seeing her thus laid low by something he did not understand.

Head falling into his hands, he tried to take some deep, steadying breaths, but they did little to give him the anchor he needed. Pressing his eyes closed against the exhaustion, he tried again, breathing deeply in and then out.

Denethor was so deep in thought he almost missed the timid touch of a small hand on his knee. His head popped up and his eyes flew open, only to look into the small face of his youngest son. It was so odd to see Faramir without Boromir by his side that he cast his glance around just to be sure his oldest son was not there also. "Where is your brother?" Denethor asked.

"Sleeping," Faramir answered, his grey eyes meeting Denethor's, a noticeable trace of fear in them.

"And why are you not also in bed?" Denethor asked sternly.

"I woke up," Faramir stated. "Where's mother?"

"Sleeping," Denethor answered, "Which is precisely what you should be doing, Faramir."

"Is Mama sick?"

"Why do you ask that?" Denethor demanded, his voice coming out more sharply than it was wont to do.

Faramir took a step back, and looked down at the floor. "She always comes in to see us before she goes to bed, and she never came tonight. I was waiting because I wanted to tell her something but then she never came. And she always comes."

Denethor opened his mouth to speak, but it was Adrahil who addressed the child first. "Faramir," Adrahil said, "Your mother was very tired before she went to bed tonight, and she thought it was best to go to sleep right away. But if you tell me what you wanted to tell her, perhaps I could tell her for you in the morning."

"No, its okay, Grandfather…" Faramir looked down at his feet, but then met Adrahil's gaze with a frank look that seemed to suggest that he did not believe what either man was saying. "It's not so very important. I can tell her later, I guess."

"Then I think you need to go back to bed now, Faramir," Denethor told his young son firmly.

"But Father…"

"Not tonight, Faramir. Go back to bed." Faramir just stood looking at his father, and there was hesitancy in the young boy's eyes, and Denethor knew that the lies that he and Adrahil had told had not worked. His perceptive young son knew something was wrong, and for a moment Denethor thought Faramir would refuse and the anger the Steward now held simmering irrationally under his control would break loose.

It was then the door to Denethor and Finduilas' chambers opened and Eärwen came out. With one glance, she took in the situation, and then calmly walked over to her grandson, kneeling down on the floor before him. "Faramir, darling, what are you doing out of bed?"

"Mother's sick," the child stated, meeting her eyes with an unyielding gaze, almost like he was challenging his grandmother to tell him otherwise.

"Its true that your mother was not feeling well a little while ago, Faramir, but she's sleeping now. You need not worry any more tonight, all right? Can you please go back to bed like the good little boy your mother would want you to be?"

Faramir thought about that statement for a moment. "I just wanted to make sure Mother was all right," he told his grandmother as tears sprang up in his eyes. "She didn't come in to see me tonight, and she always does, and I knew something was wrong and Mother's sick and I don't want her to be."

"I know darling. None of us like that your mother is ill, not your father, or your grandfather, or myself. But everything that can be done has been done, and she is sleeping comfortably now. There is no reason to worry tonight. Come now, I'll take you back to bed and tuck you in if you would like." Faramir nodded past the tears and used one small hand to wipe them away. "All right, darling," Eärwen said, getting to her feet before reaching down and picking Faramir up and resting him on her hip. "We'll get you back to sleep and in the morning you can go in and see your mother." She gave him a slight smile and continued, as she walked with him down the hall to their room. "And that time will come so much more quickly if you go to sleep. Before you know it, it will be morning."

Denethor had watched the whole exchange silently, his gaze following them down the hall until they disappeared into the boys' room. He had not like the sound of the conversation, though perhaps even perceptive Faramir had missed the concern in the lines around Eärwen's eyes and how she had never promised that Finduilas was completely well. He felt cold inside as despair rose up in him, even though his stubborn mind refused to voice his greatest fear…a fear even the threat of Mordor or death in battle had never could not match.

Neither man seated in the hallway spoke, but with one glance at Adrahil's face, Denethor knew the Prince was as troubled as he himself was. They remained silent until Eärwen appeared again, and Denethor felt the remaining strength gained from the argument with his son vanish completely, and he knew that even if bid to, he could not stand. Eärwen met his gaze with a frank look that spoke volumes to the perceptive Steward before the older woman even opened her mouth to speak.

"I must tell you some things," Eärwen began, "Even though Finduilas extracted a promise from me not to. At this moment I see no sense in concealing them from you any longer. You have a right to know, as her husband of many years, and I believe now that I was wrong to make the vow of silence I did. Yet before I speak, I must tell you that Finduilas believed this the correct path, not because she wished to conceal them from you, but because she did not wish you to be troubled when your mind had to be on other things. I ask you now, before I even speak of this, to forgive her for that. She only kept her silence and made me promise my own because she loves you, and was more concerned for you than for herself." She paused, and Denethor found his voice was gone and he could not speak. Nevertheless, he gave a curt nod as a tacit agreement to her request. She sighed and looked away from him, turning instead towards the window on the opposite wall. "This is not the first time this has happened since we arrived," Eärwen admitted. "To my knowledge, it has happened twice before, in the month since we arrived. Once when I alone was with her, and once when we both were there." She glanced over to Adrahil, who was staring at the floor, his face covered by a mask of pain. At the glance, Eärwen's face gentled and for a moment her own grief was allowed to come through and become apparent on her age-lined face.

"What does the warden say ails her?" Denethor asked, feeling very much as though he had been struck. There was a long pause before his mother-in-law spoke again, and there was tension in her voice.

"He has no specific name for it," she answered. "But he is doing all he can for her." Denethor took that in and for a moment there was absolute silence in the hall. The torchlight flickered as if touched by an unfelt wind and caused the shadows to dance a slow waltz across the stone walls.

Denethor closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to fight away the dread that was filling him; he felt as though he would shatter into a thousand pieces as if he were a precious vase dropped from the very heights of the Tower of Ecthelion. He could not bring himself to ask the one question that most mattered, the one thing that his heart burned to know. The thought itself was unspeakable; he did not want to be left alone.

The door swung open and the warden emerged with an unknown woman a pace behind. There was a great weariness on his face and in his eyes that Denethor could not help but mark as he forced himself to stand and meet the other man's eyes. "I have already told him what I know," Eärwen told the warden.

"Then you have been told all," the Warden said, and the statement was a curious mix between a question and a statement. "I swear I will do all I can for her, my lord. Only time will tell if my efforts will do any sort of good. I may be able to help her or perhaps this shall clear up on its own. It is not yet time to despair, my Lord."

Denethor swore his heart stopped beating. "Then, she may yet…" He could not bring himself to say the word.

"I will not deceive you by saying that I am not concerned," the warden answered, "But the lady is young and resilient. She has come through difficult times before, and there is yet no major reason to believe she will not come through this as well. Hope is not yet lost."

Denethor nodded to the warden, who bowed. "I will return in the morning," he told the Steward, "Lady Isëlmra is with her now, but I could send someone else to look after her, if you will it."

"Nay, that is not necessary," Denethor told the Warden. "Thank you, all the same." The Warden bowed again.

"I live to serve, my lord," he replied and left the hallway, the second woman trailing behind him silently.

"Adrahil," Eärwen said then, "I believe we ought to retire, now that we know what there is to know." The aged prince nodded and got to his feet, having remained silent for the entire exchange.

"Yes, of course," he answered his wife and with a nod to Denethor reached his hand out to her.

"If there is any change, please send for me immediately," his wife's mother said. Denethor nodded, and together Adrahil and Eärwen went away down the hall.

Denethor himself turned to look at the door for a long moment, steadying himself as he reached out to turn the handle. It opened slowly before him, and he had stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him before he allowed himself to look over at their bed. Isëlmra was sitting by the bedside facing the door; she met his eyes and stood when he came into the room. He gave her only the briefest of glances before he looked to his wife. She was asleep, her face pale, her entire body motionless underneath the rich coverlet.

He forced himself to walk forward to the bedside to look down into her face, peaked and pale, the firelight casting the same shadowy dance across her beloved features. He just stood silently, watching her, his hands clenched at his sides, getting up his strength to be able to speak. When he finally did, his voice was no more than a whisper. "Thank you, Isëlmra," he told the older woman, "You can go." She looked up at him, startled, and for a moment he thought she would argue, but instead she rose and, with a bow, slipped away from the room.

The instant she was out of his sight, Denethor forgot about her, seating himself in the same chair she had been in moments previously. The Steward sat for a long time unmoving, his eyes on his beloved's motionless face, the fear and the grief he was feeling intensified by the utter silence of the room about him that was broken only intermittently by the snap of the fire.

When he finally could not stand it anymore, he sat forward in the chair and took Finduilas' hand where it lay on top of the coverlet, holding it in his own with just enough force to comfort himself but not to awake the sleeper. Denethor had always been an eloquent man, though not a very open one. After the first few years of their marriage, when they had grown comfortable with each other and in their lives together, he had not often told her how he felt, for he knew his wife understood without needing words.

Now, however, they poured from him without hesitation, without censorship, for the sight of her beloved face so pale and still struck Denethor deep in his heart, causing an incredible pain that was only matched at the thought of another pain that may yet come. "Finduilas…" Denethor began, even as he fought the tears that were threatening to come to his eyes, "Please, beloved…" He blinked hard. "I was nothing before I knew you…you gave me everything I am, everything I have today. I…I cannot lose you…"

There was no reply, not even a twitch, to show that she had heard and understood his pleas. It was as if she were already lost, gone far beyond where he could follow. Keeping one hand firmly around hers, his other hand came to his face as he wept.

Denethor did not sleep that night, exhausted though he was. Even if he had tried to rest, he doubted he would have been able to find sleep. Dawn found him sitting still by her side, the emotional tears of the first shock having faded into a calm despair that seemed to strike him to the very core of his being. The depth of his feelings did not, however, appear on his worry-lined face. Throughout the long sleepless night of watching, a decision had been made that he would not reveal his true fear to his wife, who needed all her strength to become well, not in worrying about her own husband. He had to be strong for her sake, more so than for his own, though it would not be easy.

Denethor sighed and stood, walking over to the door that led out onto their small balcony, stretching his back as he did so, for it had grown stiff over the hours he had sat by her side. The day was getting lighter, although the dark clouds of soot and ash that hung over Mordor to the east obscured the sunrise. Sighing again, he took a deep breath of the crisp spring air and then re-entered the room. Returning to her bedside, he found her eyes open, and she gave a small smile at him, though there was shame in her eyes. "Finduilas," he said, and his voice was relieved.

"Can you see the sunrise today?" she asked him, before he could say anything else.

"No," he answered as he sat down, drawing the chair closer to her bedside, "The East is too dark."

"Oh," she answered, and her smile faded. "I miss the sunrise," she said after a moment. "They were always beautiful in Dol Amroth."

"I know," Denethor answered, and for a long moment there was silence between them, a heavy, uncomfortable silence. It was not often Denethor could find no words to speak to break the silence between himself and his wife, but now his emotions were charged so highly that he was left speechless. He did not know whether to feel only grief, or whether he should be angry she had concealed the truth from him.

In the end, it was she who broke the silence and her voice was soft but unhesitating when she had finally decided to speak. "I am sorry, Denethor," she said softly. "I was wrong to conceal this from you. I should have told you the moment it first happened." He looked over at her to find her gaze had fallen and her thin hand was playing nervously with the sheets. "I did not wish to deceive you, but…I did not wish you to worry needlessly, not when you had so much else to occupy your mind. I understand if you are angry."

"I am not angry," Denethor answered, and it was the truth. The anger he had felt at first had faded, leaving him with an empty, helpless feeling, and the realization that it was because she loved him and wanted what was best for him that she had lied. "I just want you to be well, Finduilas. That is all that matters to me now."

"I am trying, dearest," Finduilas said.

"I know." Silence fell between them then, as if that was all that had needed to be said.

He spent the entire day at her side, and into the next before a quiet knock on the door interrupted his vigil. Finduilas was sleeping, so he carefully laid her hand back down on the bed and crossed to the door, finding Lord Adrahil on the other side. "Excuse me," he said quietly. "He regrets to disturb you, but Lord Elatan is leaving within the next few hours, and he wondered if you might have time for a word with him. He promised not to take much of your time, for he knows that your place right now is with your wife."

Denethor sighed. He had forgotten about Elatan, and the last thing he wanted to do was speak to the man. Still, there was no choice. When he gave his word, it was binding. "Very well," he conceded. "Will you stay with her?"

"Of course," Adrahil said, moving aside so Denethor could step out.

"I'll be back quickly." He headed for his office.

He had been there only a moment when there was a knock on the door and Elatan entered when bid, bowing low. "I regret to disturb you at such a time, my lord," he said. "I pray your forgiveness."

"I gave you my word," Denethor said. "And I mean to keep it."

"All the same, my lord, I would have understood if you did not."

"Yes, yes," Denethor said. "What is it you wished to speak to me of?"

"I have been…approached."

"Approached? By who?"

"The Corsairs." That got Denethor's attention quickly. "I informed the council that they had stepped up their attacks, but I did not wish to mention that they had sent an emissary to see me."

"Why?" Denethor asked, somewhat sharply.

"They wished my aid in renewing the attack on Gondor's southern borders. Of course I refused, and sent them on their way, but I fear that they have approached some of the others as well. If he turns even one of them to their side, and they were very persuasive, then I fear it could be Gondor's downfall."

"I do not think any of them could possibly be swayed by the traitors," Denethor said. "However, I thank you for the warning."

"I don't know, my lord. Sides are being chosen for the war. Sauron, I fear, will move within our lifetimes, and I fear that Gondor will not be strong enough to stand. Others may have the same fear, and choose the wrong side."

"That is many years in the future," Denethor said.

"But not so far away as it once was. The Mountain of Fire burns again, and Sauron's fortress has been rebuilt. And yet, there is no way to spy on him, or on the traitorous Corsairs. Among my people live many of those who fled Ithilien in the path of the evil spreading from the Black Land."

"I will do what I can," Denethor said. "I thank you for the warning, and I hope that you will be patient. Please send me word if they approach you again, and keep your eyes on the river. I trust you will defend the entry."

"With my life," Elatan swore. "Thank you my lord."

Denethor went back to his wife with a heavy heart, concerned over what Elatan had told him, though it did not show on his face. Upon entering their chambers, he found Adrahil sitting, watching his daughter sleep, with concern on his face. When Denethor entered he stood. "Is all well?" he asked his father in law.

"She has not awoken," Adrahil answered. "There has been no change."

"Very well," Denethor said with a sigh. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, my lord."

"I know you return to Dol Amroth soon. I would request that you be extra vigilant in watching the Bay."

"Why?" Adrahil asked, and Denethor explained what Elatan had told him. "They may seek to approach the others, if that is the case."

"I will be wary," Adrahil promised. "Dol Amroth will not allow such a thing to happen."

"I thank you," Denethor said with a nod, sitting down again by his wife's side.

"I live to serve, my lord," Adrahil said, reaching out to gently touch his daughter's forehead before leaving the room as quietly as he had come.

Time passed quickly then, one day bleeding into the next, until Denethor could scarcely tell night from day. The morning hours he spent in his study, dealing with the most urgent of problems for the city and the realm, and trying to find news to support what Elatan had told him, but by mid-afternoon he abandoned the rest to his advisors and returned to their chambers to spend the rest of the day and night with his wife.

For the first few days, she had seemed to get a little better, her smile faster, almost as if the relief that he now knew was enough to aid her in healing. She spent most of it in their garden, walking and laughing with her father and mother, who had remained beyond the end of the council, or their sons; the threat looming over her seemed to fade away for a few brief, beautiful days.

Yet it soon began to change. Adrahil and Eärwen, though reluctant, could no longer delay their return to Dol Amroth and departed. Denethor had avoided the parting between his wife and her parents, not wishing to intrude on their last moments together, remembering full well his wife's earlier words and realizing himself just how old Adrahil now appeared. Once they had gone, however, Finduilas grew much more quiet and introspective. It pained Denethor to see her pain, for he knew she felt it keenly, though she did not say anything to him about it.

The Warden came daily, bringing various remedies to help her and a cheery outlook that Denethor realized his wife responded to, something that he was struggling to maintain. He hated to see her faltering, her beautiful green eyes distant as she bore the waves of discomfort uncomplainingly.

Denethor awoke one morning still weary, for he did not sleep long when he permitted himself to sleep at all. Sitting up, he turned to glance at his wife and found her eyes already open. When he shifted, she turned to him with a smile, moving only her head. "Good morning," she said softly."

"Good morning," he replied, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Weary," she replied. "My head aches."

"Can I help you?"

"Not at present," Finduilas answered. "Isëlmra came in awhile ago; she already gave me the remedy the Warden left." There was a long silence, and she closed her eyes again. "I am so tired of this, Denethor," she said, and there was a catch in her voice. "I want to be well again."

"I know," Denethor said gently, brushing several strands of hair from her face. Her eyes flickered open and met his, and he saw the tears in them.

"Hold me?" she asked, and Denethor gave her a gentle smile.

"Forever," he answered, laying down again and drawing her into his arms. He felt some of the tension in her body disappear as she rested her head on his shoulder, though after a moment he felt the hot wetness of a tear on his bare shoulder. His hand moved from where it had rested on her back and began to stroke her hair, using his other hand to pull her more closely to him. "Please do not cry," he whispered to her. "It will be all right."

"I am scared it will not be," Finduilas said. "I am trying to be brave, but it is so difficult, Denethor."

"I know," he assured her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I know." There was a long silence and then her voice came again, muffled slightly.

"I feel so much stronger when you are with me, beloved. Promise me you will never leave me?"

"I promise." He felt her smile against his chest and, after several minutes, felt her breathing even as she fell back to sleep.

It was mid-afternoon before, summoning his advisors, he began to move through the business of the day. He had not wished to leave her, but he also could not leave the business of the country undone, though he wished to throw everything that demanded his attention into the Anduin and return to her side.

It was to be a long afternoon. Several hours had passed before a page came knocking on the door and, entering in, bowed and spoke. "My lord, forgive my intrusion, but I was sent to inform you that a ship from Dol Amroth has just arrived, and Lord Imrahil has come."

Imrahil. Denethor would have been lying if he had denied the possibility that his wife's brother would come. Still, he had not truly expected him…not yet. His first thought, which came unbidden to his mind, was that the younger man had made the long journey to say goodbye.

No, Denethor told himself firmly. It was ridiculous. Imrahil undoubtedly had merely thought that he would have a good influence on his sister's recovery, since they were so close. "All right, thank you," he told the page, his voice firm. "Please send word to my wife. Tell her I will be there shortly." The messenger bowed and disappeared, and Denethor turned back to his advisors. They would finish this quickly.

When he arrived in the courtyard, in the shadow of the long-dead White Tree, he was surprised to see Finduilas standing to the southern side, staring to the south-east towards the river. She was alone, wrapped in one of her light green spring cloaks, the wind whipping about her like a maelstrom. He walked over to her and spoke her name, but she did not seem to hear him. In her pale face there was a look of yearning, and for a moment, her eyes fell closed almost as if she hoped to capture a sight or a sound that she could not find.

His gentle hand on her shoulder caused her eyes to fly open and she turned abruptly. "Denethor," she said, and the look of longing turned into a smile as her hand reached out to take his. "I thought you were Imrahil."

"Disappointed?" he asked gently, smiling at her.

"No," she answered, squeezing his hand with all the strength that remained in her thin fingers. "This is such a surprise though. I was not expecting his coming."

"The boys will be excited."

"Yes," Finduilas commented softly and, keeping her hand in his, turned back to look out over the city and the fields far below. They were silent for a long moment before she gave a soft sigh.

"Is something wrong?" Denethor asked instantly.

"I am merely tired," Finduilas replied.

"Would you like to go back inside?" Denethor asked.

"No, I want to wait for my brother," she answered firmly. "He will be here soon. Then we can go inside and I will rest." Denethor simply nodded. He wanted to protest, but he had come to learn that sometimes, it was a worthless exercise. Unless she collapsed from exhaustion, nothing would keep Finduilas from waiting until Imrahil had appeared in the courtyard.

"Mama, Papa!" came their son's childish voice, and both parents turned to see Faramir running across the courtyard towards them, grinning from ear to ear, Boromir a few paces behind.

"Hello, darlings," Finduilas said as Faramir came and hugged her about the legs. "How did your lessons go this morning?"

"They went well, Mother," Boromir answered her simply, while Faramir cheerfully and quickly told her everything he had learned that morning.

"But then Isëlmra came in and said that Uncle Imrahil was coming, is that true Mama?"

"It is very true, my dearest Faramir," Finduilas told him, her smile gentle. "He will be here very soon."

Denethor gave a slight smile and then looked over to Boromir. His eldest son was looking at his mother with a critical eye, and Denethor could see a trace of worry in his eyes, almost like his thoughts were echoing Denethor's own, questioning why Imrahil had chosen now to journey to Minas Tirith.

"Why is he coming, Mother?" Boromir asked then. Denethor looked to his wife, and saw the moment of hesitation, however brief, before she answered her son.

"I am not entirely sure, Boromir. Perhaps he does not need a reason?" Both Faramir and Boromir were looking closely at their mother now, and just as Denethor opened his mouth to speak in an attempt to allay their worries even though he felt the same way, there was a sound from the entrance to the courtyard, and the entire family turned to see Imrahil striding towards them.

Faramir was off first, running to his uncle with childish enthusiasm. He was greeted by Imrahil swinging him up into his arms, as Imrahil carried him back to his parents, listening to him as he talked.

When the young man reached them, he put Faramir down and embraced his sister first, holding her for a long moment before pulling away and almost hesitantly searching her face. Finduilas met his gaze with a smile, one that brought some of the old light back into her eyes and a hint of color into her pale cheeks. "It is so good to see you, brother," she said contentedly, embracing him again.

After a moment, Imrahil pulled away and extended his hand to Denethor, who took it in a warrior's salute. "Welcome," Denethor told his brother-in-law. "It is good to have you here."

"Thank you," Imrahil said with a smile, and then turned to his older nephew and extended his hand in the same way. Denethor smiled to himself as his son straightened, a slight look of surprise on his face, and then responded to the salute as Denethor had.

"Uncle," he said, his face breaking into a large grin, unable to hide his pleasure at being treated as more than a child. Denethor stepped forward and put a hand on his eldest son's shoulder, glancing over to his wife.

Finduilas was smiling, but there was something in her eyes that spoke of distance as she watched her son and brother. Denethor started to take a step towards her, but almost as if she had seen the movement, she spoke, extending her hand to her younger son. "Come, Imrahil," she said, "You must be tired. I am sure it must have been a long journey for you. I am sorry you did not bring Eryniel with you."

"Yes," Imrahil answered, again casting a critical glance at his sister. "Well, she would have come, except it was not a good time for her."

"What do you mean, Imrahil?" Finduilas asked as she started walking back towards the Citadel. Denethor had some idea of what the answer would be, something that was confirmed when a broad, almost boyish, smile spread across the other lord's face.

"She is expecting our first child," he told his sister. Finduilas actually stopped walking and turned to her brother, her smile broad and her eyes sparkling, though there was a hint of tears within them.

"Oh, Imrahil!" she said, "I am pleased to hear it!"

"I thought you would be," Imrahil said, "I have to admit, I was pleased myself."

"We're going to have a cousin?" Faramir asked, looking from his mother to his uncle and back again.

"Yes, indeed, Faramir," Imrahil said, as he reached down and picked up his nephew.

"I hope it is not a girl," Faramir said.

"Why not, darling?" Finduilas asked as they again began walking towards the Citadel.

"Because they are weird," was the appropriate four-year-old answer. "Boys are better."

"I doubt you would think that if you had a sister yourself," Imrahil told his nephew, and then cast a sly glance to his sister. "But then again, maybe you would."

A delicate eyebrow arched, and in a dry voice, his wife retorted "Not nearly as strange as younger brothers," she answered.

"Hey!" Faramir said, turning to his mother, "I am not weird!"

"Are you not?" nine-year-old Boromir added, looking up to his brother. For a moment, Faramir struggled, and Imrahil put him down. Boromir, laughing, took off running, Faramir following, though he was no nearly as fast as his older brother, leaving the adults to walk alone.

None of them spoke as they entered the Citadel, yet when the came to the hall which would take Denethor to his office, he broke the silence. "Finduilas, I have a few more things to take care of this afternoon."

"All right," she said, pausing and turning to him. Denethor smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I'll take my time," he added softly, brushing a finger across a pale cheek.

"Thank you," she answered, taking his hand and squeezing it for a moment before she and Imrahil continued towards the family quarters. Denethor looked after them for a moment before turning and going towards his study. He could find something to occupy himself for a few hours at least…

Denethor had been working for about an hour, pouring over reports on Corsair activity, growing more and more frustrated at the lack of support for what Elatan had said, when a knock came on the door. He laid aside his quill, pushed away the frustration, and straightened the sheets in front of him. "Enter!" he called, looking to the door to see who would disturb him while he was working. Many in the city would not, unless it was the height of urgency.

Part of him was surprised when Imrahil entered, but another part of him told him that he should not have been. Rising to his feet, he motioned to the pair of chairs placed before the fireplace, and both men walked towards them. Usually, Denethor would have a subordinate stand before the desk, but with his wife's brother it seemed only proper to talk man-to-man even though, Denethor reflected, he probably did not wish to know what the other lord had to say.

They sat silently for a moment, staring into the fireplace though there was no fire built due to the summer's warmth. At long last, Imrahil spoke quiet words that nevertheless shattered the almost tangible silence between them. "She does not look well."

"No," Denethor said without meeting the younger man's eyes. "She does not." Silence again. It was the first time Denethor had admitted to someone else that he thought so; he had been trying to deny the paleness of her cheeks, the dark hollows under her eyes, the thinness of her weakening body. "I…worry for her." A shudder ran through the aging steward at those words. He did not often speak his true mind, save to Finduilas, but it was a relief to say them, for he knew Imrahil loved her as much as Denethor himself did, in his own way. "Everything that can be done is being done," Denethor said, "Yet she grows no better. She smiles and carries on as if all is well, but I can see the pain in her eyes, see how even the slightest exertions can leave her gasping for breath…And I…I can do nothing. Nothing except watch her suffer."

Almost without warning he felt tears pricking at his eyes, and he straightened his posture and made a manful effort to push them away. "Excuse me, Lord Imrahil," he said, rising to his feet. Without another word, he strode out of his office, leaving a startled Imrahil behind.

Denethor was not even aware of where he was going; all he knew was that he needed solitude. The tears were threatening more insistently now, and proud as he was, he would not shed them for anyone to see. He found himself walking quickly, unsure as to where his feet were taking him until he found himself entering the White Tower. There were too many people about on the first level so he went to the stairs. With a glare to the guards standing at the entrance, he spoke in a firm voice, knowing his face was wrapped in a scowl. "No one is to pass."

"My lord," the higher-ranking man said, saluting in acknowledgement. Satisfied his order would be followed, Denethor entered the dark stairwell and headed up, around and around, climbing farther and farther until he came out at the top. Once there, he collapsed onto a stone bench that ran around the edge of the round chamber at the top and allowed himself to bury his head in his hands. The tears that had threatened began to fall freely and, sure he was completely alone, Denethor wept.

He lost count of how much time passed, but when at last the tears slowed, Denethor wiped his eyes and leaned back against the wall, thankful for the stability of the stone behind him. Forcing his breathing to return to normal, he cast his eyes about the room, catching glimpses of the view about him. This room had been a refuge for him for many years, since his childhood when his father had brought him here.

He noted where he was; the south side of the tower. Rising to his feet, almost without thinking he crossed the room to the western side and paused in front of the break in the bench there. There were four such breaks in each of the cardinal directions; everything in the room appeared uniform.

However, appearances were deceiving. Standing before the wall, he paused a moment as the idea that had been forming in his head coalesced, and words his father had spoken forty years before on the very spot where Denethor now stood came unbidden to his head.

"_You are old enough now to know my son. Here, in the tower, rests something that the house of the Stewards inherited with the rule of Gondor." _

_Ecthelion's hands, not yet stained by age, reaching out and pressing several places on the wall, and before him a door swung open…_

In the present, Denethor's hands made the same motion that his father had decades earlier and the door swung open. He entered the small corridor, swinging the heavy stone door closed behind him. Mounting the stairs in the pitch darkness, he climbed until he appeared in another room completely.

"_The Arnor-Stone, one of the seven palantíri brought by Elendil from the wreck of Númenor. I would not chance to use it, for as you have been taught we know not where the others are. But it is time you know, for it is indeed part of your inheritance."_

It was still there, underneath a black cloth with the White Tree embroidered in silver upon it. He stood there, motionless, staring at it for a long moment, and the debate hung heavy over his head. It was here and, if he could use it, perhaps…however slim the chance…perhaps he could bend its sight to the south, to the sea…He could seek the answers to the questions Elatan had posed, see the true intentions of the men to the south…

At that thought, something else suddenly occurred to him, as he stood there staring at the cloth. If he could bend its sight south, to the sea…it would be possible to give Finduilas a glimpse of the beloved home that he knew she missed. Finduilas never said so, never complained, but Denethor knew she yearned for the sight of the sea and her own city. Could he do such a thing? If it were possible, could Finduilas then see the same thing, especially in her weakened state?

It all came to one conclusion. He had to try. Not only for Gondor's sake, but for hers.

Reaching out, still hesitating a moment, Denethor removed the cloth covering the stone and, laying it aside, he dropped it to the floor. After only another moment's hesitation, Denethor laid his hands on the stone itself and shut his eyes, willing the grey towers of Dol Amroth to appear before him.

Before his eyes, the swan banners of his wife's city appeared before him, and he stretched out still further, his gaze falling upon Adrahil, working at his desk, and Eärwen, embroidering in her sitting room. He pulled away, his gaze sweeping over the great Bay of Belfalas, west to the Great River, and south down the coast. In his vision, he saw for the first time the brown city of the Corsairs, saw their black ships sitting still in the harbor, and noted that there seemed to be little or no movement of the ships towards the north. Several sailed south as he watched, but there was no indication of movement towards Gondor herself.

He hesitated a moment, then his gaze turned westward, to the Ephel Dúath and dared to peek over the high, sharp mountains with his sight, down into the Black Land itself. He only took a moment's glimpse, for the instant his gaze peered over the shadowy mountains and fell upon Barad-dûr, he felt something…a fearful malice, and in his mind's eye he suddenly saw a fiery eye, falling upon him.

With a great effort he dropped the palantír, his breathing hard, his eyes wide, his hands trembling. Grabbing the cloth, he dropped it over the black sphere, where the red eye was still visible. Staggering backwards, he felt himself strike the wall, and he grasped at anything that might offer a solid grounding to the world about him.

It was too dangerous. The possibility of using the palantír to show Finduilas the sea she yearned for was now impossibility. He would not risk her, weak and frail as she was, to such an effort that he had expended to see what he had seen. While there seemed to be no danger in it, it had taken a great amount of his will.

The loss of that consolation hit Denethor hard, and his knees went weak beneath him. Collapsing to the floor, he buried his head in his hands again, feeling the heavy weight of his years and a wash of despair. He truly was powerless to help her…

It was twilight by the time Denethor left the Tower, closing the secret door quietly behind him and descending the long flights of stairs as he resolved to only use the palantir at times of great need. The guards had changed in the time he had been above, and they went to attention as he passed. Denethor ignored them, taking a deep breath as he exited the Tower into the courtyard beneath it. All signs of his weakness gone, not wishing to worry his wife, he walked with quick paces, knowing that it was nearly time for dinner to have been laid out.

Movement out of the corner of his eye where there had been none caused him to slow slightly, and he turned to see who had joined him in his walk across the courtyard. Boromir did not say anything at all or even make eye contact with his father beyond the briefest of glances; instead, his small hand reached up and took his father's, holding it as they walked. The Steward looked down to his son, seeing the worry in the child's eyes, and a profound rush of love washed over the normally stern man. It was a relief, for it broke through the relentless despair he had been feeling since his conversation with Imrahil and his encounter with the palantír.

When they reached the threshold of their home, Denethor stopped and smiled down at his son. Boromir met the gaze with a tentative look of his own, the worry fading when he saw the caring look in his father's eyes. "Thank you, Boromir," Denethor told his son, ruffling his hair slightly as he had done when Boromir was much younger. Boromir's smile grew in return and nodded before together, hand in hand, father and son went inside.

Denethor sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose in an attempt to get rid of the throbbing headache that was forming behind his temples. It was mid-afternoon, and he was still in his office, getting caught up on work that had been bypassed because of Finduilas' ill health. Now, however, he felt better about spending time in his office, knowing that his ailing wife had company while he looked to the affairs of Gondor. There had not been much change in her condition since Imrahil's arrival, but Denethor knew that her brother's presence made his wife happy in a way that even he, her husband, could not.

When all was said and done, however, he had grown no less worried since Imrahil's arrival. When the Warden came, his face was no longer laughing and cheerful, it was serious and subdued. Denethor did not like the change. Sighing, he set aside the report he had finished reading and scanned the next. So much work to do, it was hard to believe that one man could do it all, and yet he had been for nearly five years.

A hurried pounding on the door drew his attention completely away from the paper before him, and he bid the person enter. It was Isëlmra, and the look on her feet had Denethor on his feet and heading for the door before she even said a word. "What happened?" he demanded as the older woman tried to catch her breath.

"She collapsed again," Isëlmra said, "But it is far worse this time. Not only that, but your sons were there to see it."

Denethor's mind quickly cycled through all the curses he had learned back in his youth, when he had been a soldier of Gondor, before his official duties as heir to the stewardship took him away from the battlefield, except on rare occasions. The fear he felt now was not only for Finduilas, but for his sons. The true extent of their mother's ailing health had been kept from them, young as they were, but there was no longer any way to hide it now. "Where are my sons now?" he demanded as they hurried through the hallways.

"I don't know," the older woman answered hesitantly, flustered. "Only a moment after the warden was called for, as I was going over to take them out of the room, Faramir ran, and Boromir followed him. I know not where they went."

Denethor did not like that answer, but as he knew his older son would take care of the younger he forced that worry away for the time being, for now they were at the door to their chambers and Denethor had to go in, had to see her, and there was no room for thought about anything else.

The door swung open before him, and the scene before him filled him with dread. The warden, sweating and harried, his face full of deep concern, was working over Finduilas, who was lying so still, and was so pale, that Denethor's heart stopped with the fear that she was already dead, that he had come too late. For suddenly, in his soul, he knew that she was dying, that if she were not already dead, the day was soon coming where her failing body could no longer take the strain of her long, unnamed illness, and she would be lost to him forever.

That realization caused him to freeze, and he reached out to the table near himself for support, his eyes falling closed and a mad desire to weep striking him dumb with pain. He was sure that, if he had been any stronger, the table would have cracked under the pressure he was putting on it.

A hand on his shoulder then, strong and firm, and Denethor forced his grey eyes open to meet Imrahil's gaze. In the younger man's eyes, Denethor saw the same knowledge he knew was reflected in his own. She was lost to them. "Is she…" Denethor asked, his voice trailing off. Imrahil glanced over to where the warden was working.

"Not yet," the younger man said, and his voice broke.

There was a rush of relief that mingled with the pain, and Denethor found himself trembling, unable to release his iron grip on the table. There were no words that could be said, nothing that either man could do. For a man who was unused to being helpless, the feeling was strong enough to destroy, to shatter every emotion within him until there was nothing but an endless agony, a pain and terror that left him weak.

Too young…she was too young for this; too young to be torn from him…their sons were too young to face the pain of losing their mother. And he…Gondor or no, Denethor did not feel like he would be able to live without her smile, the soft touch of her hand. His grip grew even tighter, and he felt warmth on his fingers. He looked down at his hand, from which he felt strangely detached, and saw blood flowing from the tip of one where his fingernails had been partially torn back, though there was no pain at all. He was strangely numb, all over, in his despair.

Then there was again a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his head away from his bloody hand to face whoever it was. Imrahil. His wife's brother was pale, and holding out a goblet to him. "Drink this," his brother-in-law suggested. Denethor stared at the cup for a long moment, before his free hand went to take the glass. His hand was trembling even as he took it, and a little of the wine inside splashed out, staining his sleeve with red as the cup made its way to his mouth.

He drank deeply, disjointedly noting that the wine had an almost bitter taste, finishing the glass within moments. When he had finished, his unsteady hand allowed the goblet to crash to the floor, and the silence he felt to the core of his being was shattered by the sound of the metal against stone. The normal noises of the room began to seep their way back into his ears, even as he felt his muscles relaxing and his grip on the table loosening, almost against his will. So tired…He took a staggering step forward, allowing Imrahil to take his arm and help him to his chair before the fire.

He had just rested himself down into it when darkness claimed him, and for the moment, he was granted a respite from the fear and despair that had been overwhelming him.

When Denethor awoke it was twilight, and he felt a good deal calmer as he stretched and got to his feet. Fighting the churning in his stomach, he went to Finduilas' bedside, glancing over at Isëlmra, seated there with tears streaking down her aged face. "Where are my sons?" he demanded, his voice flat and emotionless.

"With Lord Imrahil, my lord," Isëlmra answered, looking up to him for the first time. "He's looking after them."

"You may go, Isëlmra," he then ordered, leaving no room for argument in both the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes. "Be sure they are both fed and put to bed at the proper hour."

"Yes, my lord," Isëlmra said, curtsying, though the look on her face suggested that she wanted nothing more than to disobey. Casting one last, wistful look at the woman on the bed, she quietly left the room.

When she was gone, Denethor sat himself down in the chair she had vacated to wait. The healers would return, and Finduilas would wake, and he would be there, waiting, when it happened. There would be no doubt of that.

He did not sleep, merely sat and watched, reaching out to caress her hand, her beautiful dark hair, the stark hollows of her pale cheeks. The hours fled by, their suddenly limited nature making them precious even as they sped away. One time and then again, he felt the tears come as he caressed her gently, feeling the silkiness of her hair and the softness of her ashen skin.

The sound of the door opening jolted him from his reverie, and his head jolted up in surprise and sudden anger at the person who would dare trespass upon his solitude, guarding his wife's sickbed. The anger lessened just a little when he saw that it was Faramir. The five-year old made his way over to the bed in the darkness, and Denethor suddenly rose to his feet. "What are you doing here?" he demanded of his son in an irritated whisper.

Faramir looked up at him, his lip beginning to tremble. "I wanted to see Mama."

"You shouldn't be here, Faramir."

"But Papa…"

"You've seen her now, Faramir. She's asleep."

"But…"

"Go to bed!" he snapped. Tears filled Faramir's eyes but, casting one last glance at his mother, he obeyed, casting one last, disappointed glance to his father. For only a moment, Denethor regretted his words, and was just about to call the child back when, on the bed, Finduilas stirred. The child was instantly forgotten as Denethor leaned over her bedside, taking her chilled hand in his own. "Finduilas?" he asked gently, no hint of the despair he was feeling entering into his soft voice.

Her beautiful eyes flickered open and fell upon her husband's concerned face. "Denethor…" she breathed weakly, "I'm sorry…I…"

"Shhh, beloved…" Denethor said, stroking her raven dark hair, "Relax yourself, you'll do yourself no good if you worry."

"Our sons…are they…"

"Do not trouble yourself, they are all right." He bent to press a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered again, "I don't want to leave you…"

"My love, please…you will be well soon enough, you won't be leaving us."

"Your lips say one thing, but the despair in your eyes speaks to something different," Finduilas said. "You cannot lie to me, Denethor. You must accept the truth, not only for your own sake but for our sons. They'll need you so, when I've gone…" She pressed her eyes closed and tears began to leak out from behind the closed lids. "Oh, Denethor, they're so young!"

There was nothing to say, Denethor reflected, no way to answer his wife's distressed cry except with a squeeze on the hand and tears of his own, tears that fell hot and fast as he clung to her hand in anguish. "You…" he said, his voice breaking as he studied her face. "You can't go, Finduilas. You can't. You can't." His voice fell to a whisper.

"I haven't a choice," she said, and her eyes flickered open. "I haven't a choice…" She reached weak, trembling arms up, and her eyes begged him to hold her, a demand that he met instantly, holding her tight as if to forcefully hold him to her, to keep her from slipping away. "I love you," she whispered, her voice soft in the silence, broken only by the sounds of a man valiantly fighting tears.

There was nothing more to be said.

"Denethor?" Finduilas asked him, her breath rasping in her throat, her hands roving listless at her side, the dark shadows near her eyes speaking of the mortal weariness that was slowly overcoming her failing body.

"Yes?" he asked, studying her in the darkness of their bedroom, lit only by a few candles placed near the bedside.

"My head aches. Is there any of the warden's tea left?" Denethor nodded, caressing her hand for reassurance before stepping over to pour her tea. Returning to her bedside, he helped her to sit and drink before laying her back down and setting the cup aside. "I want to see my sons, Denethor. And my brother."

"Don't you think you ought to be resting?"

"Please, Denethor…" her dull, pleading green eyes met his, and numbly he nodded. Tiredly she smiled at him, reaching her thin hand out to touch his where it rested on the bed. "Thank you, beloved."

"I'll send for them." Rising to his feet, he went to do so, coming back to the bed and sitting down beside her. Reaching out, he took her hand again, and she gave him another tired smile before speaking.

"All will be well, Denethor," she whispered.

"How can it be?" he asked. "Finduilas, I…"

"I told you once," she said as a too thin, trembling hand reached up to gently caress his face, "That if it ever were to happen, you would have to be strong for our sons, my love. You have to be now. They're still so young…" she blinked back tears. "Denethor, I tried…I want to stay with you, I do, but…every day I've lost a little more, and I know I haven't the strength. Not now. I'm so sorry…" She blinked harder and her hand fell away from his face to wipe the tears from her eyes. "I love you so, so much…"

"There is still hope, beloved…" Denethor whispered, though the words sounded false even as they passed his lips. "Do not speak this way…"

"I have to, Denethor. You understand as well as I do, I can see it in your eyes. You look at me as though I were already lost!"

"You're not…" he whispered, reaching out to wipe her tears away, taking her face in his hands. "You're not."

"Denethor, I…" she began, even as there was a hesitant knock on the door.

"Who is it?" Denethor commanded.

"Your sons, my lord," the guard's voice came through the heavy wooden door. Finduilas wiped her eyes again and with trembling limbs pushed herself into a sitting position. Denethor got to his feet.

"Send them in!" he ordered, and the door swung open. Boromir and Faramir entered, hand in hand, Boromir's face carefully schooled to neutral, fear in Faramir's eyes.

"My boys…" Finduilas said, "Come over here by mother." Faramir pulled away from his brother's hand and ran over to her bed, jumping onto the bed without thought and crawling over to where his mother was lying. Finduilas tucked her younger son under one arm and then beckoned to Boromir, who had paused by the side of the bed. "Come up here, Boromir," she said, holding open her other arm for him. Faramir shifted to her other side as Boromir removed his boots and crawled up onto the bed, with a side glance to his father, who had moved to the other side of the room and was staring into the fire, his back to them. "Let us just sit for a moment," Finduilas whispered, pressing a kiss to Faramir's head, then to Boromir's. "My boys," she whispered, and there was a trace of tears in her voice. "My darling boys."

"Mother?" Boromir asked, and the question was in his voice.

There was no way to tell them, no way to assuage the grief to come. "Darlings, you are so wonderful to me," she said, pressing a kiss first to Boromir's head, and then to Faramir's. "You are two of the three greatest gifts my life has known. I want you to know that, and to remember it."

There was silence for a long moment before Faramir spoke, his voice full of tears. "They said you have to go away," he whispered.

"Who did, love?"

"I heard someone say so. I don't know who. But Mama," he said, his voice rising in pitch. "I don't want you to go away!"

"I know, dearest Faramir, I know. But sometimes, you must do what you do not wish to, because there is no choice. Do you remember the story I told you, about the first Faramir?" she asked. Her son nodded. "Do you remember what I told you about that story?"

He nodded again. "You said that sometimes we can't have what we want, even if we want it more than anything else in the world."

"That's right, my love," she said quietly. "I want nothing more in the world to stay here, with you, and Boromir, and with your Father…I love you all so well! But, the choice has not been given me to stay. I'm so sorry, love."

"I don't want you to go either, Mother," Boromir said, burying his head in her shoulder.

"I know love. I know." She pressed her eyes closed to fight the tears. "I have one thing to ask of you both," she said, pulling them in as tightly as her weak arms would allow.

"Anything, Mother," Boromir said steadily, though there were tears in his eyes. "I need you to be strong," she said. "And I need you to depend on and love each other, always. I need to know that my boys will take care of each other."

"I promise, mama," Boromir said.

"So do I," Faramir agreed.

A weary smile crossed over her pained face. "I will miss you so," she said, pulling them tight again. "You, Boromir…you are already so dependable, and strong, that I do not fear what shall come for you. And you, my Faramir," she said, turning her head to him. "My wise little man. Always follow your heart, love; it will never lead you astray." She relaxed her grip a little as she no longer felt able to hold it. "I have every faith in you, both of you. And I love you. Always."

"I love you too, mother," both boys chorused in unison, clinging to her with trembling hands, tears falling from Faramir's eyes and firmly contained in Boromir's. She held them for a long moment, allowing Faramir to cry, and giving Boromir the comfort he needed.

"Do not be afraid," she told them. "But be strong, and never fear the darkness."

They both nodded as there was a knock on the door, and she tightened her grip even as Denethor moved to open it, admitting the Warden. Finduilas saw who it was and, mustering all her courage, forced herself to release her sons. "My boys," she said, kissing each of them as she forced the tears from her eyes. "I have to see the Warden now, loves, but I promise you can come back in the morning to see me, all right?"

Boromir nodded, fighting away the tears even as he reached for Faramir. Taking his younger brother's hand, he led him from the room, even as Denethor and the Warden came forward towards the bed and Finduilas finally allowed the tears to flow.

Crossing the room, Denethor reached out and, almost as though he forgot the warden was present, reached out to hold his wife tightly to him. "Oh, Denethor," she cried softly. "I don't want to let them go, ever," she sobbed quietly. "I don't want to let you go."

Denethor felt his throat constrict, and he pulled away from her just enough to turn to the Warden. "Please wait outside," he ordered, his tone harsh, and the Warden bowed and quickly did as ordered. Without watching him go, Denethor took his wife in his arms, climbing onto the bed to pull her closer as she wept into his shoulder. He couldn't say anything, his stomach was in knots in his throat and his heart pounded as he silently begged for the ability to make her well, to save her, to keep her by his side. It came down to one simple, painful fact.

He couldn't.

For a man who had always been able to do exactly as he wished, whose control over all was firm and masterful, it was a crushing blow. For the first time, when it truly mattered beyond anything else, he was powerless. He buried his face in her shoulder, wanting to beg her not to leave him, to rage against the forces that slowly pulled him away from her, but he didn't. Instead, he held her tight, focused his own tears into a deathly calm that he didn't feel in his heart, and remained silent, watching and waiting.

After a long time, her tears ceased as she fell into sleep, her illness and exhaustion getting the better of her. Denethor did not let go, holding her tightly, hoarding the moments that had grown ever fewer, made more and more precious by their limited nature.

It was early when he woke, feeling a movement in his arms. Startled he had fallen asleep, he sat straight up in bed and fumbled for the candle by the side of the bed. "Denethor…" his wife whispered, the power and musicality of her once rich voice gone.

He turned to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Yes, Finduilas?" he said, his heartbeat pounding with fear in his chest.

"Is it yet dawn?" she asked. Rising to his feet, he crossed the room and threw open the doors, bringing in the rich sent of the roses of Dol Amroth that had, as he had predicted on his wedding night, spread throughout the small garden.

"Yes," he answered quietly. "It's just slightly past it."

A gentle sigh and her weak voice came again. "Can you see the sunrise today?"

He looked to the East, where the dark clouds of Mordor obscured everything, even the sun. He didn't know what made him say it, but when he spoke he said, "Yes, beloved. You can see it."

"Is it beautiful?" she asked.

"Yes, dearest, it is."

"Good…" she whispered. He studied the darkness for a moment, then turned back to the bed, crossing the room and sitting down by her side again. His wife's breathing was labored, hitching with every breath, and her eyes showed the shadow of pain that had taken her for its own. "Denethor…" she said quietly.

"Yes, beloved?"

"Remember your promise…" she said. Denethor felt tears coming to his eyes as he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to her own, throwing all the love and despair he felt into the kiss. "I…love…you," she told him, and for a moment, her beautiful smile crossed her face again, one last time.

"I love you too," he choked out, his hand taking hers in his. "Finduilas…" he started to beg, but with one last little smile, her eyes fell closed. "My love, no…" he said quietly, squeezing her hand in his own. "Please…"

There was no answer. For a moment, a shadow of pain flared on every beautiful, pale feature, yet soon it faded, replaced by an unmarred peace. In shock, he stared at her, his voice failing him, as the terrible stillness crept its way through the rest of her body and, with a little sigh, she exhaled one last time. "Finduilas…" he said quietly. "Finduilas…" He reached out to touch her face, trying to force himself to think this was a dream, that he would wake up and she would be laughing at him for being so foolish. But he knew, beyond a doubt, that it was truth. "My love, no…" He stared at her, trembling with the shock of it, though it had been expected, and tried to reconcile himself with the truth even as his heart recoiled. "No…" he said weakly, one last time, shocked beyond the point of tears, but she did not respond as he silently begged her to do. Devastated, he rose to his feet, staggering backwards towards the door, ordering the guard there to get the warden. As the man sprinted off, Denethor moved back to the bed, collapsing into the chair at Finduilas' side, taking her still hand in his own, begging for a miracle, though he knew none would come.

He thought back to those beautiful days, that nearly endless summer by the ocean, saw her beautiful smiling face the night it had been they had met, on their wedding night, the first time he saw her with Boromir in her arms…he felt again her arms around him, heard her first whispered words of love punctuated by the cries of the gulls, and realized truly the horrible, utter silence in their bedroom.

It was over.

Author's note: It took a long time, but I've finally finished. I hope you like this last section. I'm pondering starting another story on this topic about what happens afterwards, but I don't know if I'll have the…well, courage I guess. I love Denethor as he was, and I really don't think I want to spend time with the man he becomes. I hate him for changing, even as I understand it now. There are some holes, I think in the story, namely dealing with Elatan and the Corsairs, but as this is a story of Finduilas and Denethor it was not the place to discuss it. If you really awnt to know the details of it (or think I'm crap for leaving the true story behind that out) let me know. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this monster sucker. I admit, it feels good to have it done.

Thank you so much for reading, and for bearing with me through the long delay. If you have time, and the desire, please review.

Cheers,

Nat


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